Talia - Protectores Mundus
by Roku - Molester of Science
Summary: Storm clouds gather over Thedas and Tamriel both, as rivalries and the clashing of cultures and religion threaten the uneasy peace many foollishly take for granted. In Thedas, questions arise that could throw the continent into total war. Tamriel readies itself for its own conflicts, both within and without. And a mere mortal can set alight the fires that would consume the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Ah, and so, we are back.**

 **You all thought it'd take longer, didn't you? Well, thing is I'm really pretty damn smitten with Talia's story now, and it's by far the one I have the most plot thought out for. I couldn't get a hold of the illustrator from the first book, so I chose something a bit more ambiguous for the front. Also, I'm trying out a slightly different style than the first book where more happens in the chapters. This is mainly because I plan for this book to cover both Awakening and DA2.**

* * *

 **Between Storms**

* * *

 _By Royal Decree_

 _Let it hereby be known that the Circle of Magi of Kinloch Tower of Lake Calenhad, is to undergo reforms within and unto its methods of education and warding of the mages under their watch._

 _These reforms are as such, and will be followed as decreed by crown and people, for the betterment of all, and the strengthening of our nation, in this dire time of exhaustion, so that we may as quickly as possible restore the strength and vitality of our country and culture._

 _Firstly, the Ritual under which young mages are harrowed and transitioned from apprentices to mages proper, is to undergo scrutiny by royally acknowledged investigators, as agreed upon with the representatives of Fereldan nobility, as they do so represent the interests of their subjects and vassals, of which the body of the Circle is entirety constituted. No longer is the Ritual to be kept a secret, and must instead be one the apprentice can ready themselves for, mind and body, so as to ensure as many as possible pass through this so direly needed test._

 _Secondly, once the Ritual of the Harrowing has been carried out with satisfactory result, the mage in question must now be offered the choice of their future. To simply wallow away in the Circle has proven to foster minds bent on escape, by means necessary that neglect the safety of their fellows to the degree that death of innocents is acceptable. Such a risk cannot be accepted to persist against the safety and wellbeing of the crown's subjects, for magic is no crime to be born with, and should suffer no greater punishments than the risks it bring._

 _As such, once the mage has passed their Harrowing, they must be allowed a choice. Should they wish for it, they may remain within the Tower, for reasons of their own and the Circle's, and continue as they have done so far, to live out their lives in general seclusion._

 _Otherwise, two choices remain, for though the mage did not choose their magic, it is a gift that must be employed for the betterment of Ferelden. The Grey Wardens and the Royal Army both seek mages now, for as the fight against the Darkspawn exemplified, one mage can achieve what hundreds of swords may not. While the Grey Wardens have always retained the right of conscription, the Royal Army has not until recently wielded the ability to ensure the safety of mages within its ranks. As it now does, a Harrowed mage is wanted as much as any to join the ranks of their countrymen, in the defense and maintenance of their country._

 _In addendum, it is no longer forbidden for apprentices, of whom a great many are children, to maintain ties and contact with their families. Visits are no longer to be prohibited, and in kind, visits home will now be allowed within the bounds that the Circle can ensure the safety of those it involves._

 _\- Anora Mac Tir, First of her name, Queen of Ferelden and its People, Protector of the Realm._

Wynne rolled the scroll back together again, a sigh escaping her as she leaned back into Irving's old chair. Hers, now, somehow. Becoming First Enchanter had never been in her plans, as she and Irving had been of almost equal age, and she had expected her... _passenger_ , to carry her off to the Maker's side, long before Irving left this world.

And yet, the wound he had sustained during the Battle for Denerim, nearly three weeks back now, had been far more grievous than she had first assumed upon her examination of them. She had missed a cut, it seemed, and it had been allowed to fester, undiscovered, until the droplets of poison the Darkspawn coated their blades in had spread, and the Taint had consumed him. Her mentor and friend through years beyond counting, lost days after the battle itself was done, when all danger had been thought past.

She had never seen it coming, and nor had he himself, if his vigor and mood in those final days had been anything to go by. The Knight-Commander had been correct in his reluctance to leave Irving alone, much as she was loathed to admit it. For she had counseled against the man, and argued that he could do more good in Kinloch than he could in Denerim. The mages that survived the battle had returned, and they needed what Templars they had here, in the Tower.

"I find this...a rather unsettling change." The Templar in question stated, having held his tongue for the long minutes she had spent perusing and reading the document aloud. His expression had fallen into worry before she had even finished the first line, and remained as such even now; "We are certain this is not a forgery? Maker knows there are a great many that would enjoy the downfall of the Circle. And there are people capable of faking handwriting, and even the Queen's personal seal."

"Yes, I...find I must agree that it is a risk." She agreed hesitantly, for there was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind. It was not doubt so much as to the veracity of the document, as to the cause of its creation. She would not be among the last to admit that the Circle...was somewhat outdated, in some of its methods, but the reforms decreed by the Queen were bordering on the radical, and brought with them the dangers such entailed, if handled incorrectly; "Before we act on these, we must ensure that the message was indeed sent by the Queen."

"...I agree. How?"

"One of us must go to Denerim." She knew he wouldn't like it, even before his face grew an extra wrinkle at her words; "I will go, unless you feel what Templars we yet retain are capable enough without you."

"...I would rather not, in truth, Wynne." It seemed Greagoir as well had some problems adjusting to the fact that she was now in the position Irving had held for what seemed like a lifetime; "But I do agree that someone must go. Cullen I would normally send, but he still recovers from the battle. Ser Ava I trust, and she is very much capable of departing today. With your allowance, I will give the word."

"Do so, please." Wynne nodded, internally relieved that she would not have to return to the capital so soon. It was still a ruin, and bore the signs that battle had raged. The ground was still dead, even where frost had not killed it to start with. She did not enjoy the presence of the Imperials, and she knew Greagoir knew it. Neither did he, in truth, and did little to conceal it. They brought too much...confusion, with them. Too many questions that hadn't needed be asked, and that neither common knowledge nor the Chantry could immediately answer; "But ensure that she knows to be discreet, and that this is simply a verification, neither an investigation or a refusal if the decree is legitimate."

"That goes without saying." He almost seemed offended that she had felt the need to press it; "I must admit, I had half expected the messenger to be the Hero of Ferelden...though if the decree is legitimate she surely had a hand in it."

"I...actually think not." Wynne admitted, a slight smile coming to her lips. The Knight-Commander saw this no-doubt, else the frown on his face was simply one of weariness at the situation as a whole; "She's said to have been...quite busy recently, in Highever."

"...the Grey Warden headquarters is in Amaranthine, though." Greagoir noted; "There is no Blight, so she can't be there to conscript."

"Oh, it's far less serious than you make it, Greagoir...or perhaps far more so, depending on your definition." She mused, leaning back in the chair again. It _was_ indeed a very comfortable chair. She could see why Irving had been so wont to fall asleep in it; "She's getting married."

"...Ah." His reply was rather imminent, and it was clear he hadn't fully understood why this was something even worth noting until a moment later; "...with the Cousland? _Into_ the Cousland House? Her, a _mage_ who isn't even Andrastian, or even Fereldan?"

"Oh yes, I am very much afraid so." Despite the situation, it _was_ rather amusing to see the stoic old Knight-Commander in such a...well, she supposed it could be called a frazzle, could it not? He certainly reacted much as she had anticipated; "I suppose singlehandedly defeating the Archdemon and ending the Blight might have made the Chantry look the other way...Oh, do cease to be so dour, Greagoir. Wouldn't you rather admit that she has earned that much? In the end she did not even come back here, much as I seem to remember her swearing such."

"...I suppose she _has_ matured." He blinked and fastened his eyes on her again; "Still, _how_ did you know of this, First Enchanter? Is it really so that the Circle's leader spends her time on gossip?"

"Well, I could hardly _not_ have heard of it, since my apprentice is invited and would _not_ be silent on the matter..." Cíada had grown more than she herself seemed to realize, traveling with the Wardens. She was a girl no more, and a woman far more so than not. She wondered if young Cullen had realized the same; "And yes, I would have given her leave to attend, decree or not...You could always send Cullen with her, to ensure nothing atrocious occurs, naturally."

" _Naturally..._ " Greagoir sighed before glancing down at the decree that had started this day off so very eventfully; "Perhaps, on second thought, he could use a visit to Denerim's Cathedral, and a chance to help might alleviate some of his trauma. Knight-Lieutenant Ava will accompany your wily apprentice."

"Oh, you really are such a stickler, Greagoir."

* * *

It was a little strange, being back in Highever again.

The Teyrnir returned to its rightful House, all lingering traces of Howe's presence were being scrubbed away, and little remained to prove his treason had taken place, but for the yet to be cleared rubble of a fallen tower. Banner now instead hung from the rafters and the walls, and flowers of hardy winter sorts decorated the hallways. They were small things, each barely reaching a finger's length in total, and yet their numbers made up for their size.

She wasn't sure why she noticed them, only that she did. Maybe it was also because Eleanor hadn't been able to stop worrying about whether or not they had what they needed, whether everything was in place, and whether the great hall could hold the number of guests they were expecting.

Well, the _Couslands_ were expecting.

Aside from Brelyna and J'zargo, very few people from her side of the engagement were attending. Her own mother wasn't even going to be present for her wedding, which did not at all rankle her something fiercely. At all. It wasn't like it was her _wedding_ or anything, after all. But for some reason the Empire needed Rhea Aulus more than her daughter, somehow. It was an absolute pain in the ass, and in the gut, and she was pretty sure her opinion on the matter was why Eleanor hadn't even mentioned her mother _once_ since the news had come out that she'd gone back to Tamriel...somehow.

Teleportation, probably.

The Couslands - and was that a name she would now bear, or would she still be Aulus before it? - were expecting quite the company of guests. Every Bannorn under them were encouraged to attend, and bring with them gifts for the wedding of the Couslands' youngest son. Fergus and Anora still weren't official, but she suspected _that_ was more because there hadn't been the time.

With the Seventh Legion having landed just two weeks after the arrival of General Belisarius, Denerim and Amaranthine - the latter had known little about the coming of the Empire until ships suddenly appeared on the horizon and everyone screamed ' _Qunari'_ \- had been and still were a logistical mess, from what she understood. Close to six thousand men and women suddenly needed to be housed and fed in the Fereldan winter, in a country that had just barely escaped absolute destruction.

Quite simply, Anora could be forgiven if in all the chaos she'd _forgotten_ about the whole thing. Probably not about Fergus himself, as he hadn't left the city since he got there, but any talk of official courting and marriage was probably constantly put off by the ten million pieces of news the Queen had to deal with.

Talia didn't envy her.

"You're pulling faces." Brelyna noted from behind her. Her voice, sweet and gentle, brought Talia from the race of thoughts and to the room they were in, and why. Seated on a low stool, her back was against her old friend as the Dunmer combed her hair, and cleaned it as well. It had been so long since she'd really seen it glow, and it struck her that the last time she had, she'd been more girl than woman. Now...it was the other way around; "Did I pluck a strand?"

"No...it's nice. Just spacing out..."

Her entire being _thrummed_ , and she couldn't help a smile. All of this felt like some romantic fantasy, really. She was getting married, and in preparations for the whole thing her hair was combed and washed by the girl who would be her bridesmaid - it was a Chantry concept that was somehow shared between the Chantry of Mara and that of Andraste - she was given a luxurious dress that Eleanor herself had worn during her own wedding, the hallways were lined with flowers and the air was so clear and clean that it almost stung the lungs.

And her marriage was to be one of love, not mere political ambition. She was marrying the man she loved, a boy when they met yet now forged into a man grown, hardened by the war and somehow still so sweet and kind beneath it. She had not before Ferelden dared to actually hope for something like this, and yet now it was hers, and hers alone. _Damn it, I feel like a giddy kid..._

"You're thinking."

"I'm always thinking, Brelyna." Talia grinned, closing her eyes against the gentle hands of her friend. The Dunmer hummed, something between a chuckle and huff, warm and kind both; "You really should know that by now."

"Well, you're _glowing_ , so I can only really _assume_ it's about the wedding." She huffed at her own words, blowing air from her nose in suppressed amusement; "Of course you'd be, really." The squeal that followed was neither dignified nor something Brelyna often did, so Talia figured she could be forgiven for being unprepared as two arms wrapped around her forehead and pulled her backwards the few inches separating the back of her head from the Dunmer's chest; "You're getting _married_! By Azura! By Azura, by Azura! I can't believe it!"

"Join the club." Talia grinned, looking upwards to find Brelyna's face hovering above her; "Keep in mind, you had your chance at me. No backsies."

"Oh you really just are _terrible_." The elf snickered, flicking her gently on the forehead; "A bride-to-be _really_ shouldn't speak of such things."

"I'm sorry, do you _know_ me?"

"Fair point." Brelyna mused, easily settling back into going through her red cascades. Talia sighed contently and leaned back, taking her excuse to use Brelyna's chest as a pillow. She'd grown, and quite considerably at that too. Her friend sighed when she realized why Talia was rubbing against her; " _Yep_ , I really should have known."

"Definitely." Talia mused, feeling far too energized to even bother pretending to be sorry. When Brelyna's fingers finally weaved themselves from her hair, she realized minutes had simply passed them by in a silence so comfortable she hadn't even noticed it. The Dunmer stepped back and held a mirror up before her, replacing all but her own head with Talia's mirror image. If there ever was to be flaw she could call Brelyna on out loud, it would be that she was too much of a perfectionist; "...damn. Did I actually fight a war? I look like a goddamn _princess_!"

"You are, technically." Brelyna pointed out; "You failed spectacularly at disinheriting yourself."

"Oh yeah..." Right, because she'd been an absolute _brat_ back then. She hadn't been in the _wrong_ , exactly, but the way she'd handled the whole thing, especially the running away from home part, had definitely not been one of her finer moments. Then again, considering what it brought, she _really_ felt like she could afford not to give a shit about whether it had been proper or not; "You know, you _really_ should start charging for this. Not from me, naturally."

" _Naturally_." Her friend echoed with a smirk that was entirely too self-satisfied; "You know..."

The door opened before Brelyna could finish, and Eleanor poked her head in. The Teyrna looked younger than she had in...well, she couldn't say _years_ , since she hadn't known her for years, but definitely looked like she was well and truly at peace with herself these days. Having Highever back into Cousland hands probably had something to do with it.

"Ah, _look_ at you." And there was also the part, of course, where Eleanor couldn't stop herself from fawning over her to the point that it probably wasn't too dissimilar from if Talia had been her _actual_ daughter. That, on the other hand, might have raised some concerns; "Splendid, simply splendid! You look _astonishing_ , Dear."

"Apparently." Talia smiled, her demeanor softening into one of more seriousness as she looked at her mother-in-law. Or, not yet, but soon enough that she felt justified in using the word; "I'm...are you _sure_ it's okay, that I use your old wedding dress?"

"I would never in a hundred ages be able to make Anora wear it, and besides theirs isn't going to be a marriage of love. I've never been much for the political unions." Eleanor scoffed good-naturedly; "No, if I'm to ever see that thing used again, it'll be the woman with the patience to actually latch onto my younger son."

"Fairly sure he's the patient one, all things considered." Brelyna hummed, a smirk on her face as Talia turned to face her with a dead-fish stare. Eleanor interjected before she could offer a refusal of what was clearly a piece of malicious slander with no holds in the truth.

"The first of the arrivals are already in sight. As the bride-to-be, you and Aedan must greet them at the gates. Ser Gilmore will introduce them while out of earshot, and you can pretend to know them already."

"That...sounds reasonable." Talia nodded, slipping her feet into a pair of soft boots, warm within from the rabbit-skin lining. Eleanor waited as she dressed for the colder temperatures outside; "How many do you think will come?"

"As a Teyrnir, Highever has two underlying Arlings; Redcliffe and Amaranthine. The latter is, currently, unattended until the Crown finds a suitable warden, or a steward. Under those are the Bannorns, and we expect the presence of at least the closer Houses...So, I would say nine or ten Bannorns worth of nobles and their entourages."

"That...sounds reasonable." Talia repeated, this time with far less confidence.

Half an hour later, thanking the gods and Eleanor for her warm furs and cloaks, she greeted the first of the visitors to Castle Cousland.

The Bann of West Hill was the first to arrive. Jurmin Toller, a portly man with a beard reaching to the top of his chest, brought with him a retinue that in itself could have played the role of an army. Twenty knights in plate, four times that in free-riders and retainers, and more serfs and servants than she could keep a track of.

Bann Osmod of Dogwood was next, already within sight when Toller announced himself. Much like his fellow Bann, Osmod was built like a man unfamiliar with famine, but very much so with warfare. Yet he was soft and gentle in his speech, and greeted Talia as if she was already somehow his superior. She wasn't, since Wardens couldn't take titles, but he seemed either unaware or defiantly uncaring of that fact.

Half an hour later, the rest of the Banns arrived in one massive procession of humanity and beasts of burden. They'd met up by sheer chance at a series of taverns and inns along the main roads, and travelled together for safety against the Darkspawn still roaming the countryside. Bann Cynewald of the River Dane and Bann Aelfwyn of Afton's Valley made their greetings together, a custom Aedan made sure she'd been aware of as not being completely unheard of. They were actually cousins, hence the display of fellowship.

Bann Eric of House Coldren of Bright Hills arrived mounted, then promptly _gifted_ her the horse he rode in on, stating it to be a proof of its quality and breed that he'd dared present himself atop it. Gilmore had been the one to warn her of the man's less-than-orthodox nature, meaning she wasn't dumbstruck with surprise when he made the offer.

Bann Brifard arrived with his wife - he did _not_ offer her as a gift, thankfully - from the Bannorn of Deerford. It occurred to Talia that they were actually from the lakeside of Calenhad, which meant they'd probably heard quite a few things from the Tower. She decided _not_ to ask, because if she did there was a pretty big risk they'd mention something about someone riding along their roads, talking about burning aforementioned Tower down.

Bann Teagan's arrival was unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome. She welcomed him too, far more personally than she had the others. Connor was not with him, nor - thankfully - Isolde. The Bann's nephew now instead lived in the Tower of Kinloch, though she had a feeling things there were about to change. She honestly _wished_ she'd had a hand in Anora's decree, but with the plans for the wedding, she hadn't even considered the damn thing a possibility. Isolde, meanwhile, held down the fort in Redcliffe. With Eamon's death, she was now ruling Arlessa, and Teagan...helped, somehow. The man was rather vague on just what he was doing in Redcliffe.

As the column of humans passed through the gates of the castle, it became apparent that the more southern Bannorns would not be showing. In hindsight it wasn't really surprising, given how hard their lands had probably been hit by the Blight. Putting the plights of your subjects over kissing ass was something she could respect, if nothing else.

The people arriving now, having been sequestered to the rear of the formation, were people she actually _knew,_ few as they were. A girl strode towards her, something between a robe and a dress - whichever it was, the thing was several sizes too big - dragging across the cobblestone. A figure in heavy, Chantry-marked plate followed, keeping to the right of the girl. Of course, the presence of a Templar -it was almost definitely Cullen - really did give Cíada away, even if she had tried to dress up as civilianish as possible.

"You know...I'm still not entirely sure why you invited me..." the elven mage mused, angling her face as she looked _up_ at Talia. Having someone shorter than herself around was absolutely _not_ a reason; "But...I am honored. I didn't think I'd ever get to experience something like this...By the way if this is a trick I'm setting you on..."

"...fire?" the Templar asked, and the voice being female briefly threw Talia for a loop. It made Cíada pause too, though for a different reason it seemed. The girl turned her head just enough to look her warden in the eyes...helmet, an uncertain grin on her lips.

"Probably not fire." Aedan hummed, clearly amused.

"Well...something. I mean, bugs, maybe." She grinned, shifting her feet. Talia really didn't know what to say to that, her eyes instead going to the Templar. Right, she just had to be polite, even though there was something...familiar about this; "Also, people are supposed to remove their helmets when they enter the properties, Knight-Lieutenant."

"My apologies." the female Templar - Knight-Lieutenant Templar? - replied, unfastening her helmet. The bucket-like piece of metal came off, letting a bun of red hair bounce free, and a face maybe ten years older than Talia's own was revealed; "It is good to see you are both alive and well, Wardens. I...do not know if you recall, we met on the docks at Lake Calenhad. I am Knight-Lieutenant Ava of the Templar Order...also I am in the duty of Cíada's chaperone for the duration of your wedding. I shall not disturb nor interrupt, unless my charge decides to...go a little overboard."

Even Talia had to wince in sympathy at that when she saw the grin on Cíada's face. She tried her best to offer a comforting smile at the Templar;

"...I think you're gonna be busy."

* * *

Within the halls of the White-Gold Tower, Emperor Titus Mede preceded over a meeting the likes of which few ever saw, much less had any influence on.

Comfortable on his throne, he could yet not deny the tension in the air, wafting from the Dunmer rising from her knees before his seat. Rhea Aulus bore a face devoid of emotions, but only the truly blind could miss the evidence of the storm underneath that calm exterior. There was a broiling mass of churning emotions within her, and even he could see it.

How much more obvious was it to Cato Flavianus, his Spymaster?

The only other Imperial in the room stood off to the side of the throne-room, keeping his silence in favor of simply watching. It was, Titus pondered, perhaps a symptom of the personality one usually possessed in such positions. Middle-aged and balding, with the nose of an eagle's beak, you could drop him in the streets of any city, and "Ol' Cato" would simply vanish in the crowd, then return the next day with a foot-long list of Dominion-supporters, or corrupt officials.

"It is good to see that your return to Tamriel was a safe one, Queen Rhea." There was always the question when Cato was around, however, on whether he should address people like Rhea Aulus as he had just now, or address them with the monikers they employed within the Empire's network of spies and agents. The Penitus Oculatus made great use of agents trained by the Shadow Legion, and she was one of their best; "I trust you have had a smooth journey?"

"I did, Excellency." she stood at attention before him, her body rigid and proud, yet submissive and aware that she was outranked. She always knew where she stood, even before most others.

"And your daughter?"

"Talia is also safe, Excellency, though she has for the time being chosen to remain in Thedas."

"Of course, of course..." he nodded, leaning back. It was as much of an indication as Cato required, it seemed, and he stepped forward with steps so soft that they were barely heard in the cavernous chamber; "Now, since I trust you have had the time to hand in your report... there have been developments, in your absence. Flavius will fill you in on your next mission."

" _Yes_ , Red Iron, you really will appreciate this one." the Spymaster hummed, hands behind his back as he went around hers. Titus watched as her eyes tracked from one side then shifted to the other, her face still locked forward towards the throne; "Developments are afoot indeed. We are sending you home, Red Iron, to Morrowind."

"Sir?" Finally she allowed confusion to show, something he rarely ever saw in these far-in-between audiences. Titus remained silent, however, allowing the spymaster to do his job, and not do the man's job for him. Flavius never smiled, but he hummed almost whatever the situation.

"The Empire has gathered the necessary strength, Red Iron." Flavius stated, his tone light and cheerful despite his apparent lack of emotions; "You and several agents will depart for Morrowind tonight. You will not _know_ of each other, you will not _speak_ of each other, and you will not _hear_ of each other. You will each have your own targets and tasks, and only upon completion may you report."

"...may I inquire as to whether this is the start of a military operation, Sir?"

"Whenever is anything you participate in _not_ a military operation, Red Iron?"


	2. The Blue Wedding

**Christmas time is messing a bit with my schedule, so for once it's not a writer's block that delayed this chapter...for a goddamn week and a half. Sigh.**

* * *

 **The Blue Wedding**

* * *

The last time she had really taken in the Grand Hall, it'd been full of people trying to kill each other. Now it was full of laughter, and general merrymaking.

There was a sort of poetic irony to that, she mused, or maybe just some sort of sense. Because of the temperatures making outdoors a...not _ideal_ location for a wedding, it was instead taking place within the cavernous hall that also, she'd learned, served as the main dining hall for feasts. Or, rather, the after-ceremony part would.

It felt a little weird that her wedding was to take place without anything resembling a symbol of Mara's presence, though. Already it was dark outside, and cold too, and the guests had spread around the castle to wherever there could be found an available room.

Currently the hall was filled with tables, formed up in two long rows from the main doors to the great fireplace. The main hall was warm, and lit with candles and torches and a great brass chandelier in the ceiling. Music came from the corner, where villagers hired for the occasion filled the air with flute-play, skin-drums and string-instruments she couldn't even begin to name. From the kitchens, the scents of tonight's feast wafted throughout the corridors and into the hall, causing many a mouth, her own included, to salivate at the smell of honey-glazed pork and beef and stews with potatoes. Basil was a new herb to her, and the Fereldans borderline abused it in almost everything they didn't hose down with peppermint.

Laughter already came from where guests had broken into one of the tankards of ale prematurely. Eleanor had simply thrown one glance at the merrymaking men and shrugged, something Talia took as a sign that, while not ideal, it was definitely not something the Teyrna hadn't seen coming. Fereldans in general, Talia had come to realize, were a lot less keen on maintaining decorum at feasts, and far more so at having fun.

She also wasn't at all surprised to see Cíada throwing back mugs with them, though by the looks of it, the Banns made up for her lack of shock. Clearly, they were used to neither someone of her size nor race drinking with such vigor.

"You know, I don't think she ever drank that much back in the Tower..." she would have jumped at Jowan's voice if not for the fact that he literally could not sneak up on anyone with any ties to magic or the Fade. She still turned to look at him as he came up next to her, his gait slow and measured. It really had to be, considering just what it took for him to walk on his own. Which made her wonder, did he want something? "...then again, I didn't really...interact much with her. She was always doting on Cullen...and I had...other interests..."

"Young love tends to suck like that..."

"Young _foolishness_ more like, I think..." his chuckle was devoid of mirth, but the smile on his face was still genuine; "...it feels like a different lifetime, you know. It's hard for me to really imagine that it's not even been a year since we met again in Redcliffe...so much has changed."

 _"You_ have, definitely." She smiled at him, hoping to dispel some of the gloom he always carried with him. Merrill wasn't here, and probably wasn't even in Ferelden anymore, so that was probably part of what had his mood somewhat down; "Used to be a scrawny little thing."

"And now I'm a scrawny _...bigger_ thing?" He glanced at her, one brow raised.

"Well, I'd go with a matured little thing, but sure." She shrugged; "Honestly, the fact that you survived the Blight by means other than running the opposite direction...not a lot of people who don't carry around swords for a living can say the same."

"Maybe..." he looked down, and she understood his thoughts before he even spoke again; "I just wish..."

"Yeah..." What could she even said that she hadn't already? He'd survived the attack on the Estate, but it had left him less than whole. No Healer they had seen had been able to repair the ruined nerves in his lower spine. More than a cripple, but less than a full man, Jowan seemed to be somewhere in between it all, forcing his limps to work by sheer willpower and forbidden magic. Most of the time he just...sat around, either in the library or a wheeled chair. She didn't even know where _that_ had come from, though the contraption was a brilliant one.

It was a good thing he could read, or he might have just gone insane.

Honestly, she didn't know why Ser Ava hadn't charged in yet, because there was no way the Templar wasn't capable of sensing blood magic when it was used to blatantly around her. If she _did_ sense it, her reasoning only became that much more confusing.

"Before I have to go sit down...you know, that or I'll probably hemorrhage..." he joked weakly, and she had a feeling he was about to get to his point. There was no rush, though, because the gods knew she was _not_ going to stress him more than he probably already was; "...I just wanted to thank you. For everything. I was ready to accept my fate and die in that cell, but you...tore me out of there and gave me an actual purpose."

"...I...really don't handle these things well, you know?" Because really, _what_ was she supposed to say to that? 'You're welcome' would _not_ be it. So, in the end she just resorted to what always seemed to work, or at the very least not make a situation worse. Jowan seemed surprised when she gave him a hug, though he only returned it, and it felt like he'd needed it more than she'd thought; "...you're my conscript, Jowan, and I've never been so damn proud of a decision as I am of that."

He didn't offer a reply to that, but she couldn't really see _what_ someone was supposed to say to such a declaration. Maybe she'd been a bit unfair there, putting him on the spot with words he couldn't possibly match, but they were true all the same. He'd grown, and she _was_ damn proud of what he'd grown into. When he left her side again, returning to one of the tables where he'd probably intended to sit down and brood, or maybe ponder, movement in the corner of her vision made Talia turn.

Ava, the Templar from Kinloch - and one of the few she wasn't tempted to set on fire, not even back then - was watching from the other side of the room, an expression on her face that Talia couldn't read. It wasn't one of malice or scorn though, _maybe...contemplation?_ Perhaps, she should-

"Well, someone's having fun." Aedan remarked dryly from behind her, arms snaking around her waist even as she turned, and all other thoughts evaporated like cheap alcohol. He met her halfway with a kiss, one she found herself melting into with little effort. When they separated, his face was a flush of red, and she couldn't tell if it was the heat of the room or the kiss, though his grin indicated the latter. She felt herself boiling within at the sight, his cleanly shaven face smiling down at her, his tattoo standing out against his skin after months of winter. He looked rugged, and civilized all at once.

Dressed up in doublet and velvety trousers, he looked like a nobleman proper. The doublet was a near-golden one, in strong reminiscence of the one she remembered having seen his father, Bryce Cousland, wear. The trousers fit him well too, tight enough that they didn't slouch, but also still very much so presentable.

"Well, _someone_ cleans up very nicely." She smirked, seeing him grin at the compliment. Considering he'd spent half the day staring at her dress and the way it hugged her form, showing off just the right curves and the right amount of skin, she felt like he'd earned some in turn. Plus, he really _did_ look good; "You should wear this more often. You look good."

"I feel...a bit stiff." He admitted, a tone of sheepishness in his voice; "And weird. I'm used to be dragging around a lot of steel, now I'm...not even carrying a dagger."

"Feeling naked without it, are we?" Talia mused, knowing full well where his mind went the moment the word 'naked' passed her lips; "Don't worry, you just so happen to be marrying the only woman in Ferelden who can turn into a firebreathing beast if needs be, and shapeshift too."

"That's a turnaround of roles if ever I heard one."

"That a bad thing?"

"New thing." He hummed, taking her under the arm. She was a little surprised at his recent growth of assertiveness, but honestly couldn't claim to dislike it. It was still a curious contrast to the start of their relationship, right here in this castle, that now more and more often, the initiative was something he took. It also made her feel a bit like one of those frilly noble ladies of the books, which in itself was a bit funny; "We'll just have to try it out."

"Mmmm... got something in mind, do you?" she whispered coyly, leaning a little into him as they walked. There still was a little while until the ceremony, and as opposed to the Chantry of Mara, where ideally the couple didn't see each other until the bride's father walked her down the aisle to the altar, there was no such restriction with the Thedasian Chantry.

She had to admit it wasn't a concept she minded all that much.

"I guess you'll have to find out later." His voice was rough and coarse when he whispered back, and the hairs on her neck stood as he leaned in. From the outside it probably looked like a sweet and gentle nudging touch: "You'd better be quick about getting out of that dress tonight...else I'm gonna tear it off you."

* * *

In a different place, and with a mood that was far less festive and joyous, Anora Mac Tir was trying to gauge the intentions of the Imperial before her. General Belisarius was far less pleasant than most men her office demanded she deal with, perhaps because as opposed to them, he viewed himself as neither her vassal nor her subject. The man had the personality of a lobster, with the outer shell and snipping claws to match.

She was, at best, his equal, much as he followed every custom set before him. By the day this was getting more and more pronounced, and only in rare cases would he actually ask for her permission. His behavior would have seen him demoted or imprisoned, had he been Fereldan. But, as much as she was starting to dislike the man on a personal level, she couldn't deny his effectiveness.

Which was also why, when he now for once was actually _asking_ for her permission, she dared entertain the thought at all.

"...if I am to understand this correctly, you intend _to...disband_ my army?" It did not make her _like_ his request anymore though, regardless of his tact; "I beg your pardon, General, but I was under the impression that the goal here was to get it back to full strength as soon as possible."

"With...all due respect, your Majesty, you do not _have_ an army." Belisarius stated, his voice so flat it could have been mocking or genuinely sincere, and she couldn't have told the difference. He remained where he stood, unmoving and eerily unblinking, more a statue than a man; "Ferelden, does not have an army. You have not had an army for decades, possibly even before the Orlesian occupation."

"...I think we might disagree on that, General." Her voice was level, but cool as she regarded him from her throne. He was _much_ too akin to her father, only now there was no leniency allowed her, no familial bonds that would stay the General's admonishing words; "Because from what I recall, the army you claim doesn't exist _fought_ the Darkspawn beyond these walls, _before_ you showed up. Was that not Ferelden's army?"

"No."

" _No_?" She maintained her calm, but wanted to say so much more. The general was playing with her, treating her like a child, and she would _not_ stand for it; "Then pray tell, _Imperial_ , whose was it?"

"It was the army of several banns, the dwarven army and elven allies." If he found her use of his origins offensive, there was no sign of it; "It was not _your_ army. Ferelden survives on the basis that you can expect your vassals to raise their serfs into peasant armies, with the scant professional knight spread amongst them, led by men whose merits extend no further than how loud they can shout, and their skills with a sword. That is _not_ the foundations for _any_ professional army..."

She did not speak when he ceased to, far too caught up in his words to even know what to say. Mostly, it was because she could offer no simple counter to what he said. Ferelden had always levied her armies in this way, and it had always worked. It had kept the nobles content, and the balance of power in such a way that no one monarch could grow tyrannical.

And it was how everyone did it.

"...I am not dismissing the fact that what forces Bann Teagan scraped together did indeed salvage a battle Denerim would have lost on its own, Majesty." His tone was softer now, yet still it was clear he was not treating her as an equal in this matter. And again, she felt like he might not be entirely wrong, much as it grated on her pride and her nerves; "But I have spoken to enough survivors to know a great deal more lives were lost that did not have to. Bann Teagan only led his men to the point of the battle being joined. After that there was no order, no cohesion, unity or strategy. It was a brawl, and in a brawl it is the more numerous and powerful side that wins. You cannot beat a foe like the Darkspawn with sheer strength, not if they come with numbers like they did here..."

"...and that is why you want to _reform_ the army." She could not deny his point, much as she wanted to. Teagan himself had admitted to thinking the battle lost mere minutes after it was joined, but how could Belisarius improve upon what they already had?

"With your permission, yes." He nodded; "Accepting your country's mages into the military was a good first step, and my own battlemages will keep an eye on them in the trial period. To start with, each Bannorn must have a center of recruitment for the Fereldan army, which in turn _must_ transition from a levied force to a professional one."

"...the distinction being?"

"It is voluntary to join, and comes with salary." he stated, as if the concept was utterly commonplace. Anora frowned, trying to process it. Right now, Fergus being here would have been amazing, but he was overseeing... _something_. She couldn't remember exactly what, but it had to do with the reconstruction of the northern parts of the city, and he hadn't seen fit to expand upon it; "A man who fights of his own free will and for pay, rather than for fear of his master's whip, is twice the soldier for it. The Legion pays its soldiers a steady, regular salary, as well as a pension once the soldier's tour of service has ended after a period of twenty to twenty-five years."

"Tw... _twenty_ years, as the _minimum_?" Anora coughed. How could a society even function with an army's worth of men dedicated only to being an army, and not to the fields or trade? It was a third of how long most commoners could expect to live! How many of these armies was the Empire even maintaining?

"You have heard of Laysh, I assume?"

"I...have, yes." It had been strange news to receive, and from stranger sources still. But half a hundred Imperial soldiers and a small garrison had held off thousands of Darkspawn. She'd never quite understood how. It was not much of a surprise when rumors started to spread that the Anders considered them a gift from the Maker.

It did bring some rather...unpleasant possibilities, though, when word had arrived of a speech in Hossberg by some kind of...'Herald' of Andraste. That the Anders, of all people, would consider something so borderline heretical was...disturbing. Frankly she would rather not have known of it at all, since she had just about no idea how to react to it.

"The distinction between the way we fight wars, and the way you fight wars, is that our soldiers _can_ stave off an enemy such as the Darkspawn, even when outnumbered." He paused, and she wondered if he was going to continue, or if that was going to be his selling point; "...I want to make the Fereldan army into something resembling that kind of force."

"...I cannot say that doesn't appeal to me, General." She admitted, though reluctantly. The thought of allowing foreign power, even one that had introduced itself in the most selfless and philanthropic way she could think of, sat poorly with her. Belisarius being a hard man to deal with did not make matters easier; "But we _are_ in the middle of winter, and much of the harvest was lost when the southern central bannorns fell. I frankly cannot tell you whether reforming any sizable force at this time would even be possible."

"Understandable." The man nodded, and she found herself surprised that he'd not simply insisted. Perhaps not such a lobster anyway? "Still, provided you agree to the concept itself, I would like to make preparations, and the sooner the better."

"If I might inquire, what _kind_ of preparations would those be?"

"Once we start reforming the army, it'll need competent officers at the lead. Men and women with actual knowledge on how to direct their forces even during the battle itself." That sounded reasonable, really; "I would like to draw these from the more experienced soldiers that survived the battle."

"...not the nobility?"

"Like I said before, your Majesty, bloodline or your skills with a sword matter little if you are too stuck in old ways to adapt..." his lips became a thin line, though she could hardly guess at his thoughts; "...should I find anyone suitable in the nobility though, of course I will consider them as well. The ranks we'll need to fill is primarily to find someone suitable for Legate, or the man directly below the General."

"And the General?"

"I've...heard good things off Ser Cauthrien. The soldiers seem to trust her, and she has a sound grasp on both command, planning and leading in the field." He nodded as if she had been the one to point those out; "I believe she would make a sound commander of such a force. That is, of course, merely my recommendation. All decisions will lie with the crown as sovereign."

"Of course." Though she had to admit she was relieved; "What of the others?"

"I'll reform the Fereldan army after Imperial Legion standards, so for each Bannorn, a Captain will be needed. I'll appoint them based on performance and ability to command under pressure." He paused and frowned, as if some new thought had just occurred; "Usually Captains command the garrisons of fortified cities and fortresses. How many of those are in Ferelden?"

Once, she would have balked at the idea of offering such information to a foreigner, but even if she ignored the fact that the Empire had come with the best of intentions and was even now hounding the Darkspawn from the skies, there was little doubt that they did not need to know if they wished to conquer her country.

"Not a great many that I could rightly call fortresses, but Soldier's Peak is a heavily fortified stronghold in the Cousland Teyrnir."

"The Couslands?" Somehow, she wasn't surprised that the name caught his attention, though she hadn't expected him to actually show it. Talia Aulus _was_ a citizen of theirs, and no doubt the girl's actions would have caught the eyes of her countrymen; "So, the fortress is within their territory? Does that mean they normally are the ones supplying its garrison?"

"Not...rightly, no." Perhaps she should not have mentioned it, on second thought. Admitting to have no control over what was possibly the most heavily fortified place in Ferelden, Fort Drakon aside, would be taken as a sign of weakness, good intentions or not; "I fear it has fallen into a state of disrepair after the Warden uprising, many years ago."

"...so you do not have forces in the fortress, then."

"We do not, no." she admitted, and why, oh why did it feel like she was realizing more and more the precarious state of her own country these days?

"...might I ask as to why not?"

"It is...haunted."

"...of course it is." The General sighed, rubbing a palm over his face; "Very well, the Legion will clear out whatever spirits possess the place. In the meantime, we should decide on where the most optimal location would be for your new army's head quarters and garrison."

"I was under the impression those would be in each Bannorn?"

"The local ones, yes." Belisarius nodded; "The garrison will be where the cohorts of each Bannorn become a Legion. Without it, you will still only have the armies of the Banns, and not a unified army of the Crown. My cartographers have studied the central Bannorns, and believe Calensfort to be an ideal location."

"Calensfort?" Anora asked, leaning back as she pondered. The Bannorn of Calenfort had been hit by the Blight, but not as hard as Greybear or Goldenfield, and the largest town, aptly named for its fortified stockades and moat, _was_ more or less as central as one could get in the Bannorns. It was also the main source of wheat and flour, which meant the roads connecting it to the other Bannorns were decently maintained. Bann Grigori was killed during the battle for Denerim, though, and she had yet to hear of his successor being named. If the Bannorn stood without leadership... "I concede that it would be a well-chosen location, central and well-supplied by roads..."

"Yet you seem unwilling to agree."

"The Bannorn currently stands without a warden, and I would not let it appear that I grant foreigners lordship over my subjects, no matter how noble your intentions." Honestly, she was halfway tempted to just dig into Bann Grigori's extended family for some distant cousin and throw him at the Bannorn. It'd solve her problems, if nothing else. Actually, much as she found the idea to be bordering on the menial, maybe that would indeed be the best solution. That, or divide the area between the neighbouring Bannorns; "However, the location _is_ rather central... If not for its destruction during the Blight, I would have suggested Lothering..."

"That would be the southernmost major town, if I recall correctly." She wasn't even surprised that he remembered. If there was one thing she knew about the general at now, it was that he kept himself informed. Honestly she was a little annoyed at how rare such people were in her own country, her father and Cauthrien being exceptions; "It's well connected by the Highway, and would serve as a bastion against Avaar and Chasind incursions as well..."

" _Was_ " She pointed out again; "It was completely destroyed by the Darkspawn during the Blight. The ground itself is sickened with the taint, and the animals are corrupted and malformed, no doubt. I would not send my worst enemies to such a place."

For a long, awkward moment, the general did not speak a word. Instead his eyes were on the map on the wall, a massive wooden marvel of cartography that showed Ferelden as precisely as could be measured and sketched. It was a relic from the aftermath of the Rebellion, one her father had ordered made so to better know the land they defended. The irony was that the concept of strategic map-making was Orlesian in origin...

" _Nos veniam, nos manere_ , Highness. There is no such place that the Legion cannot stay." She had no idea at first what exactly he had said, until a small voice at the back of her mind linked the exotic words with the drab and dull lessons Chantry sisters had given her during her childhood, so many years past now. Mhairi _had_ mentioned it as well, that somehow one of the tongues spoken by the newcomers was the same used by the Chantry's oldest texts. How exactly this was a thing, she dared not even attempt to comprehend. Belisarius spoke again, however, before she could put his words together; "If you would grant this, my forces will clear the area of whatever remains of the Blight, and establish a garrison proper where the town once stood."

It would mean a significant Legion presence in the most vulnerable parts of her nation. It would mean hundreds, maybe even thousands of heavily armored troops and mages keeping the southern borders safe until her own forces were capable of such once more. And should Avaar or Chasind incursions happen, then it would not be Fereldans risking their lives against them.

Honestly, the decision was not a hard one.

"Granted."

* * *

As the doors closed behind him, General Cecium Belisarius allowed himself a sigh of relief.

Anora Mac Tir was not a woman accustomed to dealing with officers not bound to her country and throne, that much was clear, but she was nonetheless not a woman he could easily drag around at his leisure. Instead, she was determined, and fiercely so, to put the interests of her people before that of his.

Honestly, he wasn't sure if he found that more admirable or obnoxious, for though it did demonstrate her capacities as a sovereign ruler, it also made his own task that much harder, or at least it was damn well going to ensure this took a lot longer than it really should have to.

"How did it go, General?" Legate Glub Khaok inquired, still in the exact spot Belisarius had left him. The Orc towered over him, and everyone else in the Palace no doubt too, but had never displayed anything but perfect deference. The brutish culture of his people had not stopped him from being the model officer.

It did not mean that the natives of Ferelden did not glance nervously at him though, nor at any of the other Orcs in his Legion. Of course, they had never before seen an Orc, and had only just survived a battle with creatures that, to a simpleton perhaps, could have been confused with them.

Honestly, in regards to Khaok's question, it had gone less than well. While Lothering _had_ been on the list of possible locations he would have chosen for a garrison and eventual strong-point, its distance from the sea made him wary of its isolation, whereas Calensfort would have been closer. Soldier's Peak, at least, was going to be well connected to the sea, and thus the Empire.

"Less than ideal." He admitted, and the Orc merely huffed; "Gather up the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Cohort. Have them prepared for a march south within the week. We're south of the equator, so it'll probably be colder than here...and get the potioneers on making CD's. I want every man and woman carrying at the very least two. Lothering was hit hard by the Blight, and I would rather we not lose men to whatever diseases linger in its ruins...Pull healers from the other Cohorts if necessary too."

* * *

The skies were black, and clear, and filled with stars.

Talia remembered idly that once, she had tried figuring out where they were in the world by looking at them, only for Brelyna to reach the conclusions before she herself had. _Akavir...who'd have thought, really?_

Her breath came out in clouds as hot air met cold, and yet she didn't freeze at all. Aedan's arm was linked with hers as they walked through the corridors outside, the short trip between the main hall and the castle's chantry, and all along their route torches burned on the walls, and ferns and flowers crunched underneath her feet. She didn't even know how there were still ferns this time of year, but barely even thought about it as the here and now swept her away and drew her in.

Eleanor's old wedding gown was a pure white, with golden embroideries along every edge and end. She felt like...she didn't know _what_ she felt like wearing it, but as more or less a member of the family already. It was strange, really, that she could walk here now, arm in arm with a man she loved so deeply, and actually find that she might have even earned it. Banns and Thegns and friends lined the corridors, holding out branches of spruce and pine, symbols of fertility, Eleanor had admitted to her. To see Daveth and J'zargo holding up those twigs definitely did _not_ help on her ability to take this in a stride, because damn well she was about to get married and her heart was trying to jump through her ribs. _Come on, you killed the fucking Archdemon..._

When they stepped into the chantry, she found it warm and cozily lit, far more like a home than a place of worship. A woman in the Chantry's robes stood behind what resembled an altar, only it was taller, and far less spacious. The Chantry Mother wasn't anyone she recognized, but seemed kind all the same. Then again, most people who preceded over weddings tended to be in good spirits. Behind them, the guests filed in, and spread themselves across the room until they formed walls on each side of the passage from the door to the Revered Mother. Talia swallowed and allowed Aedan to guide her in, each step measured and careful as if she was trying to steer her way through the corridors of the College after a night of excessive drinking. Somehow, her mind was pretty much the same here as then, which in itself maybe should have served as a warning, though to which part she really couldn't tell and damn it, her mind was flying all over the place!

Alright, they were in front of the podium or the desk or the altar or whatever it was called. The wooden object separating them from the Chantry priestess, although now said priestess had stepped out from behind it, and stood before them with her hands placidly clasped before her.

Okay, she was breathing maybe a little faster than could be considered healthy.

Right, she could do this. Aedan already stood in front of her, facing her, and was holding her hands all gentle and sweet, like he was afraid she'd break. Was she the only one shaking or was he actually about to drop too?

"As we have assembled here, before the eyes of the Maker and his Bride, tonight we shall join in holy matrimony the lives and fates of Aedan Cousland, of House Cousland, and Talia Aulus, of the House Aulus." The Mother's voice nearly made her tear Aedan's hands from his wrists, though she managed to only clamp down hard enough for his bones to shift. It probably smarted like Hell either way, she realized, and tried to convey an apology by looks. The priestess didn't seem to have noticed anything though, and simply carried on; "Thus, we shall tonight join in kinship their families as well. The Teyrnir of Highever shall be bonded with...the kingdom, of Bangkoai?"

"Bankorai." Talia whispered when she realized the mispronunciation had been the woman seeking clarification.

"Aedan Cousland, of the Teyrnir of Highever, what will you bring to this union of fates, to convey your intentions and their sincerity?" As the Mother spoke, Talia could see him swallow. Was he afraid he had too little, or nothing at all to give? Did people forget she was a _princess_ \- because Brelyna technically was right in that she'd fucked up her attempt to disinherit herself - and that both of them were Grey Wardens so it really wouldn't matter anyway?

"Talia, I love you more than words can say." Damn it, he _knew_ she wasn't good at handling when he got all emotional. Not that she didn't _like_ it when he did, but she could _not_ buckle in front of half of Ferelden's surviving noble houses! "And though I am a Grey Warden, and thus exempt from the lands and titles of my House...I will nonetheless extend them to you, and to whatever children we may have. I offer you, on this day and to the day death does us part, my loyalty, my support, my love and my strength, in whatever capacity you might need."

"...and Talia Aulus, of Bankorai, what will you bring to this union of fates, to convey your intentions and their sincerity?" Damn it, she'd _practiced_ this part, but now that she actually had to say it, to him, in front of everyone, it felt like her throat was made of sand!

"In my homeland, arranged marriages are commonplace among nobility. They bring power and bind together ambitious families. I was once to be wed for such a purpose, to a man I had never met nor known of before. With such a union, I vehemently disagreed, and thus ended up in Ferelden. The marriage I intend to enter, on this night, will not be one that was borne of political ambition, but of love, a thing I once feared I should never come to know..."

Her voice was not getting better as she spoke, and the look on Aedan's face didn't help much either. If anything, the disgustingly happy look in his eyes was only making it all the harder for her to even stay coherent as it was. It was a good thing she didn't need to read this from a scroll, because her vision wasn't really improving much either, growing hazier by the minute.

"...I offer to this union my love, my genuine love and affection for you, Aedan Cousland, and my vow to stay by your side, to support and cherish you, to be your rock as you are mine. And I vow to attempt to not be as quick to throw myself at Archdemons in the future, so as to lessen the strain I'd probably be putting on your heart."

"I..." for a moment, it almost sounded like the priestess had to stifle a chuckle. Several guests were less discrete, and she was certain she could hear Teagan chuckling to himself. Then again, he'd pretty much _been_ there when she'd done that; "I believe those to be sound vows. Let us pray the last part will not need be tested in our lifetimes henceforth."

Yeah, on second thought maybe she shouldn't have brought up that last part. It definitely did not rank among her more brilliant ideas. That it had actually worked out was more sheer luck than her actually knowing what the fuck she was doing. Fighting something eight times your own mass was generally considered a bad idea, and for good reasons.

"I will now tie your hands together with blue silk, symbolizing the strength, nobility and depth of your bond." As she spoke, the Revered Mother revealed a long strap of said cloth, a beautiful blue that seemed to almost absorb the lights from the candles and torches in the room. It was soft to the touch as well, even the priestess wrapped it around their wrists and tied them together; "In the eyes of the Maker, and in the eyes of Andraste, I tie these lives together so that none may tear apart what has been joined. Be wed, Aedan Cousland and Talia Aulus, and may your future be one of joys and hardships shared."

Why did that last bit sound like a deliberate challenge to the universe?


	3. Back on the Road so Beaten

**Okay, so...I did not have a writer's block.  
It was much, much worse.**

 **I had exams.**

 **Still, my shellshocked mind somehow managed to churn this thing out. Whether it be a yay or a nay, I shall leave to your judgement.**

* * *

 **Back on the Road so Beaten**

* * *

Where the Imperial Highway started its first sharp turn, due west of Asariel and north of Vol Dorma, a smaller, and far less well-kept path hit off west, towards the steppes and the expanses of the Anderfels. This close to the sea, the land was yet green and arable, and winter did not clutch these lands as tightly as it did the lands further south, or hit with the biting, inland winds of the central plains.

A company of riders took this path here, abandoning the comforts of paved road and tile for the more primitive track of stamped earth. In truth, it had once been a road, almost as magnificent as the Highway, but centuries of neglect and weathering had reduced it to dirt and the occasional, overgrown and overdusted cobblestones.

They were twelve in all, eleven riders of equal equipment and garb. Their horses hidden beneath a veil of steel and iron, with even the eyes concealed behind nets of bronze, they were as well hidden away behind garbs of metal, scales and fitted plates covering them from saddle to neck, and chainmail concealing all but their eyes. Helmets adorned with a trio of feathers of many colors completed their encasement, leaving whomever might see them to wonder at such riches and splendor in arms and armor, for not only were they encased in steel, but they carried spears as well, lances as long as two men atop one another, and bows and arrows as well.

They were the _Bucellari_ , Household troops and men at arms of the Great Houses of the Imperium. Throughout all of Thedas there was no cavalryman who could best them in neither melee nor the charge, though Orlais and her Chevaliers would scoff at such a notion. In their midst, clad in purple garb and finery, yet still dressed for weather and road, their charge rode with the confidence borne from years in the saddle.

It had been many days now, since they left behind the Highway, and through avoiding the lifeless plains close to Weisshaupt, they kept to the northern path, caught between steppe and mountain range. Hossberg would not be in sight for many days again, but the weather grew worse only as they ventured deeper into the heart of Thedas. The lands to their north were fertile and lush, thick with trees and shrubbery twisted and gnarled by the fierce winds and storms that blew in from the south.

What had begun as forested lands to their north slowly deteriorated into bushlands, and then grass steppe as they left behind the High Reaches. Ahead was a land as flat as the mosaic floors of the palaces of Minrathous, and by no means as appealing. It was the land of wild horses and donkeys and camels, a strange creature that seemed to favor the barrens of the Anderfels. The road the party had started out on no longer was, but had instead become a path of barely visible tracks from carts and hoof prints, the ground too dry and undisturbed to erase the signs of traffic, and the marks of horseshoes were visible in the dry dirt and crusted mud.

A few wheel-tracks were deeper, and seemed more recent than others, and soon enough there was dust on the horizon. Captain Alaric, leader of the party, raised a hand to signal the rest to halt, and waited on his mount as their charge trotted up to his side. As he waited, his hands withdrew a long spyglass from a pocket in his saddle, and held it to his eye.

"Captain?"

"Travelers, M'Lady." He replied, voice barely disturbed by the thick veil of steel before his face; "Looks to be some five carts. I see no glints of steel, so probably tradesmen, or..."

"...or?" His charge inquired, her voice betraying limited patience.

"M'Lady, they are beset." His voice was thin, and low enough that only she could hear; "Darkspawn have crawled from the ground around them."

"I see." She nodded, halting her own mount. Horses grew nervous when Darkspawn were even within sight, lest they be trained and kept by the Grey Wardens; "Odd that we should find Darkspawn this close to Weisshaupt...how many?"

The spyglass flickered to his eye again, followed by a moment of silence as the captain watched the ambush from afar.

"Hard to tell, with all the dust they are kicking up...no less than twenty, I would say." He looked to her, what little of his eyes that showed steady and cold. They were in the lands of the Anders, and these people were not theirs. By right this was no responsibility of theirs, much as the teachings of Andraste urged otherwise; "Your safety comes before all else, M'Lady."

"Then you'd better hope your steeds can keep pace, Captain." She gave him little warning of her intentions beyond that, and his horse reeled to the side as she kicked hers into a gallop, robes like purple wings flying behind her.

" _Malum Sit_..." the Captain sighed, blinking dust from his eyes before turning to his men; "Forward! Forward!"

The thundering of hooves deafened all else as the party hammered its way down the earthen road. Tevinter Warhorses could plow through entire ranks of men, and were meant for just such, but on the open stretch they were cumbersome and no match for the speed of their charge's unarmored mount. The Captain could but hold onto rein and lance, and pray that the Maker would see his charge safe, lest his own head would land on a spike on the walls of Minrathous.

This was not the first time he had encountered Darkspawn, for sure. The Imperium was as well beset by the foul creatures of the underworld as was the Anderfels. The difference, however, was that there were a scant few Wardens who could be bothered with traveling into the Imperium, most of them for fear the Chantry in Orlais disapproved. That left combating the vile beasts up to the Legions, and to household troops like himself and his men.

Fearsome beasts though they were, the first Darkspawn in his path was crushed all the same, underneath the trampling hooves of his mount, broken and mangled without a chance at fighting back. His men, following him in a loose diamond formation, achieved results much the same as he, and within moments they were deep in the Darkspawn, crushing and cutting their way through the monsters, to reach their charge who had, by some miracle of the Maker and Andraste surely, managed to remain alive so far.

She had left behind her a trail of dried-out husks, bodies devoid of life and soul, and about her arms swiveled their essences in spiraling rings of blood and dark lights, and she lashed out with these at whatever creature got too close.

Blood mages, truly, were individuals of a terrifying power.

Spirit mages even more so.

The battle, if one could even call it so with justice, was over almost as soon as it was joined. The Darkspawn had nothing to resist their charge, and were swept away like leafs before a storm, trampled underneath the hooves of their horses. Captain Alaric slowed his mount into an easy gait, allowing the beast to catch its breath as the curtain of metal plates swayed around its legs. He himself instead surveyed their surroundings, taking some pride in seeing not a one of his men seemed to have been so much as scratched. Still...with regards to why they had even engaged the Darkspawn, they had failed.

The travelers, whether they were traders or pilgrims, were dead. As far as he could see, not a one of them were yet alive or moving, and he could hear no groans betraying some merely wounded. When his charge, the Scion of House Pavus, rode up next to him, he could but sigh. Five carts, at the very least fifty people, all dead now.

"We were too late." He offered, part apology, part observation. She didn't respond to his words, her eyes instead closed in deep concentration; "M'Lady?"

"...second cart from where we came, look underneath."

Her eyes were yet shut, but as he was wont with the members of House Pavus, Alaric did not question her. Or rather, he did not question her certainty. What exactly she had found underneath the wagon, he didn't yet know, but dismounted all the same. His chainmail and scale-garb rattled softly as he slipped from the saddle, each step kicking up dust in the dry and dead landscape. If there was, he believed, any image to truly capture the Anderfels, then this scene of carnage and death would well do the task. _Sometimes I wonder if not Misandii has the easier task with dressing M'Lady...what a mess..._

A fair few bodies, most of them folks in peasant clothing, were stacked against the wagon, and he had to haul them away to get through. Being a soldier, this was nothing new to him, and yet, the slaughter of civilians was always unnerving, no matter your experience. Lady Pavus, as he worked, was already doing hers to set alight the corpses of the Darkspawn, so as to prevent the spreading of the Taint. Malicious stuff, and the Darkspawn be thrice-accursed for spreading it wherever they went.

"Nothing." He called, finding only a single body underneath the wagon, a woman with a sword-wound in the side of her skull...what was left of it, at least; "There's just more bodi...-" he paused, frowning. The body was _definitely_ just that, but he could have sworn it moved...; "Oi, Alexandros, Isaak! Help me move the cart!"

His men dismounted and approached him, sharing his own unease around so many slain innocents. He would not hold that against them as a weakness, not in these circumstances. Cutting the butchered oxen loose, he and his men pulled away the cart with greater effort than he'd have liked. The wheels hadn't all survived the attack, and dragged through the dirt.

"Another one..." Isaak muttered, fingers tapping on the shaft of his spear.

"Had we only ridden faster...harder..." Alexandros sighed, shifting on his feet. Alaric knelt by the corpse, frowning. He could have sworn- This time when the body rocked, he did not hesitate for even a second before turning it around. His men stilled once they saw it as well; a child, a boy no older than five had been hidden underneath the dead woman; "Maker's Mercy..."

"He lives?" Isaak asked.

"Not for long, I'd think..." Alaric muttered, lifting the half-conscious child from the ground. Poorly dressed, dirty and malnourished, there was little chance he could combat the taint already no doubt spreading through the area. A quick slice of a knife would be a mercy, all things considered.

"Captain." He nearly dropped the kid when Lady Pavus spoke up. She stood as a silhouette against the raging fires of the bodies around her; "How far again to Hossberg?"

"Four days, at our current pace."

"How many if we ride hard?"

"...three, maybe." He frowned; "M'Lady?"

"Strip the horses of their armor." She was already headed back for her own horse when he understood her intentions, and felt just a little more pride in the House he served for it; "They claim this 'Herald' can cure the Taint. In two days we'll give her a chance to prove it."

* * *

It was almost strange how quickly life returned to normal, after the wedding. Then again she didn't exactly have a lot of experience with what 'normal life' meant in Ferelden, so she was kind of basing it off on how things had been back in Evermor, and even then there were a few things she was glad didn't carry over.

Waking up as the newly minted wife of Aedan Cousland, however, was definitely something she could get used to, even if neither had gotten a whole lot of sleep. _If I wasn't pregnant before, I'd definitely be now...damn..._

The castle was still full of nobles milling around. Some were even still asleep at the long tables, cups and mugs strewn about after hours upon hours of feasting and drinking. Watching them, even as she strolled about in her robes, felt somehow... _right_. There was a sense of happiness and calm that she couldn't fully explain, she knew it wasn't purely brought on by the fact that she was the center of last night's attention. There was something more to it.

It did make her grin though, when she found Cíada among the snoring drunks. The elf was passed out, forehead on the table in a puddle of her own saliva, a lot of it soaking into her disorderly hair. It was almost like watching herself, back at the College, and was pretty damn endearing, and also sentimental, if one could be that about something like this. Probably could.

So maybe she shouldn't have been surprised at seeing Ser Ava unconscious in one of the nearby chairs, looking like the smallest of tips would cause her to drop off and to the ground. The temptation was there, it was, but at this point Talia would very much like to think she was a bit more mature than that. Tipping sleeping people from their chairs was just so... _childish_ , really.

She didn't really know how she felt about the Templar, and so left in a hurry again, before notions would arise that she might actually not terribly _mind_ the woman. She could deal with that kind of contemplations later, when she wasn't still limping from the screw of...if not her life, then definitely the year. _Wait, we just started a new one...does it count then?_

Whatever. Great sex was great sex, and especially when it was the 'Bedding' part of a wedding. It was like their own little ritual, all to themselves without some scheming witch trying to drag the Archdemon's soul to herself, which really was a pretty alarming teller of Morrigan's mental state, if _that_ had been something she was planning for more than, what, a day?

It did bring to mind other things, most of which she really hadn't given much thought since Denerim. First of all, that Hakkon hadn't bothered checking in since she'd torn Urthemiel a new asshole...and then set it on fire, just for good measure. Was he...was he possibly miffed, somehow, that she'd actually accomplished what he'd asked? That'd be a dick move, if nothing else, and also just go to show how much of an indecisive arse dragons could be.

Three days passed in what could best be described as something somewhere between a dream and a working vacation. Eleanor knew perfectly well that _she_ knew perfectly well that Wardens didn't get to hold land or titles, but the gods be damned if that was going to stop the Teyrna from going off on tangents at any given opportunity regarding how to keep a Teyrnir, or an Arling, or any land really. Talia had half a mind to remind her mother-in-law of her own heritage, just in case it'd slipped the older woman's mind somehow.

Still, she really couldn't bring herself to be annoyed with the free lessons, spontaneous and unwanted though they were. It was time she could spend with a woman she genuinely liked, and get to chat with Eleanor on matters not regarding war or the hunting down of traitors. When the last of the guests left, she also helped her figure out what to do with the presents and gifts House Cousland had been offered.

Whereas her greatest and most valuable gift had been the mare presented by Bann Eric, beautiful and chestnut, a calm and gentle girl indeed, Aedan's had been a full suit of armor from Bann Teagan, little surprise there. Almost full plate, with densely woven chainmail wherever there be gaps, it was heavy, imposing, and yet he seemed perfectly capable of moving in it.

That it was only just on par with the armor of a Grey Warden, no one had the heart to point out.

"You make it look so easy." She noted, sitting cross-legged on a bench as he _performed_ in the courtyard. Really it was regular exercises, but to her, and she suspected to him as well, there was some performance to it. What knights Highever yet retained, and those were fewer than she liked to ponder, trained with him, and she was not ashamed to say that she enjoyed the show.

To watch men in full plate performing the oddest of stunts was entertaining, to put it mildly. Climbing the undersides of raised ladders, grabbling and rolling around, it brought to mind children playing in the streets of Evermor, far more so than it did nobility practicing for war.

Brelyna sauntered up at some point, though Talia to her shame had to admit she didn't notice before the Dunmer sat down next to her, shoving pastry at her face. Probably because watching her husband train meant she'd missed out on lunch, which also meant Eleanor would probably be around sooner or later, remarking that she'd missed lunch.

Honestly it was almost like her mother hadn't gone home at all. Eleanor seemed _very_ capable of filling thát particular role out just fine, and did so with a gusto Talia hadn't really expected.

"Well _you_ seem to be enjoying yourself." Brelyna hummed, sounding all too pleased with herself for that observation. Still, Talia could hardly argue with her point.

"I get to watch a group of grown men running around grabbing each other..." she smirked, making sure her eyes were on her husband as she spoke, just in case he heard. Mostly because it would be funny if he did, and realized what she meant. Still, she really wasn't surprised when he didn't seem to notice, and was instead busy wrangling one of the knights into the ground. It really probably wasn't a fair match, now that she thought about it. A Grey Warden was just on too different a level, all things considered. Even someone as scrawny as Jowan could probably...well, not win, but at least make the knight work for it.

Power that came with such a terrible price, though.

"Yet somehow you just turned a smirk into a frown." Her friend noted. Talia didn't look at her, instead keeping her eyes on Aedan as he tossed another man in full plate to the ground. He barely seemed to be sweating. She huffed, not really sure how to answer that, and Brelyna seemed to get the hint; "You know, I've been thinking..."

"I feel like I should remark on how that's one of your favorite pastime things but..."

"What month do we have now?" Brelyna hummed, and Talia had to tear her eyes from Aedan's mockery of actually struggling to see if the elf was grinning at her, like some sort of trick question. But no, there was just the same old simple curiosity to be found in those unendingly red eyes.

"...Morning star, the twenty-eighth day in..." she scrounged up her face and frowned, eyes pressed close for a moment to be sure she hadn't given the wrong date. No, it was the right one. Three days unconscious, then three weeks, then four days of post-ceremony breathing... "No, wait, it's the twenty-seventh..."

"Date's irrelevant."

"...okay?"

"So, you would say that currently, it's winter in High Rock, yes?" Brelyna egged, and it really was a damn weird question, but she couldn't detect a shred of mischief in the other girl's voice.

"Well...yeah, of course. Evermor's rooftops are probably heavy with snow right now." Talia sighed and rubbed her forehead; "You're distracting me from watching men toss each other about, you know? What's up?"

"Which hemisphere is High Rock in?"

"The northern?"

"And which is Ferelden in?"

"Well, it gets warmer the further north you go, so...the southern?" Something sounded off with what she'd just said, but Talia couldn't place it, not even when the words were her own. Something wasn't adding up, and she could _tell_ now that Brelyna might be pushing her towards something, some sort of conclusion she'd reached and needed input on...but what?

"Don't you see something...wrong, with that?"

"I don't...wait..." Wait, there...there was actually something. It was at the back of her mind, like a nagging presence, or a word at the tip of her tongue, but...what was it? Something _was_ off, but... "Is it the winter?"

"It's the winter." Brelyna nodded, her voice level and somehow almost unnerving for it; "Ferelden is the southern hemisphere, High Rock the northern. We shouldn't have winter both places at the _same_ time. _Can't_ have winter both places at the same time. It's...I don't know, but it's not possible."

"It clearly is, though..."

"And that unnerves me." Brelyna muttered; "Exhilarates me too, sure, because it means there's more to understand about the world, but...but it could really mess with how we understand what we think we already know..."

"What're you thinking?"

"I think..." the Dunmer sighed, and somehow Talia had a feeling of what it heralded even before another word was spoken; "...I think I need to return to Tamriel, to the College. I can't go back to classes, but...whom else to seek out for answers?"

"...when?" it was strange, that words delivered by a friendly face, in kind tones, could still cause her pain. It was stranger still, that she herself had been the one to be so adamant that her friends return home, to Tamriel and the Empire, despite neither being citizens, and now the very thought brought her physical pain.

"I'm not in a hurry." Brelyna quickly replied, placing a hand atop hers; "While I do need to find this out, or at least find out if knowledge on the phenomenon exists, I figure the seasons might remain as they are for a while yet...and I... would like to be there, when your child comes."

"...right."

Despite Brelyna's assurances, Talia spent the rest of the day in a state of unease. Even as night fell, and darkness swallowed up the Fereldan countryside so that only the lights of Highever town brightened the void, she couldn't escape the feeling that something was wrong, beyond the revelation her friend had sprung on her.

She had given no thought at all to the seasons, until now. In hindsight it was obvious that something was wrong, either with the very world, or their understanding of it. There was no way that the way she had been brought up being told that Nirn was round, and that the seasons followed as such, could be compatible with this...oddity. And Brelyna, her sister in all but name and blood, was intent on returning across the sea to find answers to a question she'd never even known existed, yet now that it did she could barely keep it from her mind.

"Brelyna's leaving." She didn't know how else to tell Aedan, and so simply did so as she undressed for bed, throwing her robes and cloak over her stool. Aedan, similarly in the midst of undressing, briefly faltered in removing his shirt, leaving him, if for but a moment, with his arms up and face concealed behind the fabrics. She could have found it funny, if not for her state of mind; "She's going back to Tamriel."

"I know." She felt some surprise at his words. How long had he known? "She told me earlier, before retiring. Said she'd told you too, that she had...some sort of business back home?"

"She...does." Talia sighed and crawled onto the bed, nude but for her nightgown, a flimsy yet warm and soft shirt Eleanor had gifted her. How was she supposed to explain the probable gravity of Brelyna's realization? That the very seasons were wrong? "Aedan..."

"Yes?" he joined her on the bed, one hand going to her cheek. She leaned into it, taking the solace he offered even if it helped little; "What's wrong, aside from the obvious?"

"...it's nothing." She sighed and closed her eyes, well aware of his thoughts on that. She knew, very well indeed by now, that he disliked her secrecy, just as she did his reluctance to take her for granted, or rather to believe he deserved her. Still, in that case she might as well try; "There's just...something off with the seasons. It's winter back home, and it's winter here, at the same time."

"...is that a bad thing or...?" she almost smiled at the genuinely confused expression on his face, but found it easy not to in the face of what was going on.

"The world's round, as you know." He nodded, if cautiously, as if not entirely sure what her point was. Honestly she wasn't even sure herself. Of course he knew; the Chantry might be authoritarian to the point of making actual monarchies blush, but they didn't seem to curtail the pursuit of science, and she'd seen a globe in the Palace; "But it can't be winter both in High Rock and Ferelden at the same time, because of Nirn's axis' tilt...it's hard to explain, but it just can't."

"Okay...and...the seasons are off, because its winter simultaneously here and in High Rock?"

"Basically." She sighed and flopped onto her pillow, face first. It was a bother, but there was little she could do about this, really. Brelyna might be smart enough to actually find something, but even if she did, Talia saw no reason nor way for it to change what had apparently always been the case; that the seasons were messed up; "It's probably some magical nonsense...and right now I really don't want to deal with it."

She felt Aedan's weight shifting on the bed, and found herself sighing, this time with relief, as his palms settled on her lower back. He'd started practicing, though she wasn't sure if it was his own initiative or Eleanor's, for when her pregnancy got further along and her belly would start being a pain.

"Sweet _Mara_..."

Hours later, well into the night, sleep was interrupted for them both by knocking on the door.

For a moment, just long enough that her mind treacherously could conjure up the notion that she was back at the start of everything, and that Howe's men were attacking the castle. It was squashed almost as fast as it had arisen, by the simple fact that the knockings were accompanied by a familiar voice.

"M'lord? M'lady, are you yet awake?" Gilmore, for whatever reason the gods might have deigned to give the man, had decided to wake them up at...she didn't even want to know, because she was damn sure it wasn't a good hour, because the window showed naught but the black skies and the stars upon them, doing little to illuminate the room itself

"I swear someone's better be dead..." Aedan groused against her naked back, and she was reminded of their last conscious activities when his moving meant removing himself from her, and that she should probably get a bath "...what time is it?"

"Night." Talia muttered, suppressing a yawn as she rolled towards the edge of the bed. She grabbed and donned her gown with an ease she herself found pretty impressive, considering she could barely see it. Still, while Hakkon hadn't made so much as a peep almost a month, at least his gifts were still with her, sight included; "It's...way too early...Gilmore's still knocking, go open the damn door before he wakes up your mother."

She'd managed to look more or less presentable, and throw a magelight at the ceiling, when Aedan opened the door. In the sharp light of her spell, his back turned towards her betrayed some of their activities, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, experimenting with partial shapeshifting should be kept to the tail.

Gilmore was outside, himself dressed in little more than his nightly shirt and trousers, presenting a radically different sight from his normal appearance. Talia trotted up next to Aedan as the knight handed him a small scroll of parchment.

"It's red string..." Aedan remarked, to which Gilmore simply nodded. Both seemed to notice her confusion at the statement, for her husband turned towards her; "Red string signifies a message of great import. Black string means someone has died, blue refers to military matters, green...Who sent this?"

"It's from the capital, M'lord." Gilmore nodded at the parchment; "It bears her majesty's seal. All things considered I thought it best you see it at once."

"You thought right, Roland." Aedan nodded, untying the scroll before unfolding it.

And then he simply stood there, for a several seconds longer than she was sure it'd take him to actually read the small amount of scribbles on the message. Three lines, and she was pretty sure one was Anora's signature, though she yet hadn't learned to read more than the simplest of passages, and not in the flowing hand the Queen seemed all too keen on abusing.

"... _well_?"

"...Nathaniel Howe has been captured." There was a strange lack of emotion to his words, utterly devoid of the elation she would have thought they would contain at the news of...wait; "He was caught at Vigil's Keep, so they're taking him to Denerim to come before Anora. We're asked to attend..."

"Wasn't his name Rendon?" Talia rubbed at her eyes, frowning. Had she gotten something wrong? She was pretty sure his name was Rendon Howe, considering how many times Eleanor had cursed his name.

"Nathaniel is his son..." Aedan rolled the scroll together and...didn't quite seem to know what to do with it; "Maker's Breath, was he...no, he can't have..."

"This is the first I hear of him."

"Nathaniel's been in the Free Marches since...forever, I guess. I thought. I don't know when he came back, but..." her husband stopped himself and seemed to consider what to actually say; "I knew him only as a kid, eight years ago. I've no idea if he was in on his father's betrayal or not...Roland, does my mother know of this yet?"

"No, M'lord." The knight cast a glance down the hallway; "I have not yet disturbed her sleep."

"But mine's fine to...never mind. Leave her to sleep, for now." When he turned towards her, it was as if his eyes had aged in the span of moments, and she wasn't sure whether to take comfort or offer it, at that; "I'll have to leave for Denerim, first thing come morning."

" _We_ will leave for Denerim." She jabbed him in his scarred chest, realizing her own punctuation when she planted the finger at the scar he bore, the same one she had given him all those months ago. They had been different people back then, she supposed. He smiled morosely, as if he'd hoped for this yet not wanted to ask.

"Thank you."

* * *

 **I am a little on the fence with regards to the degree of details I should give when it comes to graphic stuff like violence, sex, the works. I mean, I long-since crossed whatever lines there might be with regards to the violence, but somehow it's a different beast altogether when it comes to the...more intimate affairs, shall we say.**

 **Also I think I've rewritten this chapter something around eight times now.**


	4. A Strange Night Indeed

**A Strange Night Indeed**

* * *

"So, what do you think about him?"

It was quiet, for once, and Anora found for what was actually the first time, that she and Fergus could have a moment where it was just them. No guards, no advisors, no stone-faced General Belisarius to make her feel like she knew absolutely nothing about military matters. Their shared chamber was not yet one that saw much use, beyond the meals they took together. Certainly, the bed had yet to see his presence, and she felt no rush...at least, none that needed airing. Not quite yet.

"About whom?" She eyed Fergus above the rim of her cup, still somewhat unsure of how to deal with these somewhat intimate moments. She knew that, were this to be a successful endeavor, they would need to get used to this. _She_ would need to get used to this. Fergus seemed unperturbed by the atmosphere, if he even noticed it. The Couslands were...a quiet kind of people, if he and his brother were anything to go by, but hid within them an intellect she could not afford to waste.

Maybe there was some sort of fate to it then, that one brother would now tie Ferelden to the Eastern Empire of Tamriel, and the other would rule at her side.

She had given up on the notion of being the sole ruler, almost the same day she herself had offered the proposal of him becoming her prince-consort. Aedan, from what she had seen and heard of his personality, would probably have been someone she could overturn, but Fergus...he had a drive, a quiet and discreet, yet powerful drive she couldn't quite discern nor halt.

It wasn't an unattractive trait, nor was he an unattractive man. The scars he had been left with from Howe's treatment were there, though few were on the outside. Only the one he dragged around now, showing itself with every second step he took, was one everyone could see. The ones on the inside...should she feel honored, or flattered, that she was among the few to see those?

"I wonder that myself..." he mused quietly, leaning on the knife he'd sunk into his meal. Juices bled from the meat, tender and steaming still as the kitchens had just prepared it. She wondered, for a moment, how provisions would hold up for the rest of Denerim's citizens, as well as the Legion.

"If it is General Belisarius you mean..." she left the question hanging in the air, only for him to remain silent, eyes locked on hers to silently prod her on. Cailan had certainly never been this... _intense_ ; "He seems...honest, if not utterly rigid and aggravatingly insistent on always being right. He shows the absolute barest minimum of deference and treats me like some...some officer he can just lecture..."

"Good." Fergus, somehow beyond her understanding, found that worth a smile; "He speaks his mind, rather than hiding it. I like him. Though I have some...misgivings, on this Alliance."

"You worry that we might become a vassal to his Empire." It was not a question, for she herself had the same nagging worry at the back of her mind, troubling her at dull moments.

"I will admit it has been on my mind at odd times, yes." He nodded, idly scratching at his temple; "It's merely a suspicion, but I find it hard to believe there might be an Empire so magnanimous as to simply lend us military aid without expecting...something, in kind. More than a mere Alliance, I mean, and yet I don't think Belisarius lies when he says otherwise..."

"Welcome to the world of politics, Fergus..." Anora found herself with a smile best described as sardonic, though it was one he mirrored when he raised his cup to clink with hers. His smile remained, even as hers resumed a more neutral stance, causing her to wonder if he saw some joke in this that she couldn't; "Regardless, I feel that, as long as we maintain stability, Ferelden will prosper, regardless of the truth to the General's words..."

"Indeed." Fergus nodded, letting loose a sigh, his wry smile now lessened; "I wonder, you are aware that my brother, Aedan, is to be a father?"

"I am, yes." She wasn't sure if he wanted her to offer congratulations, considering this was hardly news. Though, perhaps he was leading towards something else? "Talia is...a month in, I think?"

"Nearly." Still, he seemed pleased that she remembered; "Wardens cannot inherit land, and as I am...otherwise occupied, I cannot take over the Highever Teyrnir when my mother retires from her duties. It is my hope that my niece or nephew can one day take up the title, if with some assistance. Like you said, stability must be maintained."

"It must."

"...Anora, that...also includes the line of succession." She felt herself grow a little still at the change to his voice. It was more serious now, less humorous, more...intense. And it stirred within her the old fear, the fear that had lingered for years as Cailan's queen. There was no lust in his gaze, no hurry or need, and it calmed her, just a little; "Just...I'm not demanding anything. Maker knows I've known the meaning of pushing a woman, and its consequences..."

"I know." She couldn't keep his eyes and looked away, then realized it might seem she was repulsed at the idea. She was not, not entirely. Fergus was a good man, and she knew he spoke the truth when he said the line of succession must be maintained. It would fall to them, in the end, and to her, to ensure that; "I knew that when I made the proposal. I just...didn't think of us talking about it so soon. Rather, I...would have preferred to wait, after the wedding so that such was..."

"Expected?" There was no disappointment in his voice, nor regret or irritation. It felt more like concern, something Cailan had often shown in the start of their marriage, before the whispers began that she would sire him no sons.

"That...is how it would be, yes." She nodded, staring at the pieces of meat yet left untouched on her plate. They offered neither solace nor answers; "It's custom."

"...sod the customs, Anora."

"I...beg your pardon?" He'd sworn. Somehow, she hadn't seen that coming. She had feared anger, even that voices be raised or that he would storm from the room, but not...that Fergus was capable of slurs was of course to be expected, but still...

"Think of yourself beyond the customs, just for once." He sighed, and seemed tired. More tired than seemed right; "I don't want to fulfil the customs, if you see it as a mere duty, a _role_ you must fulfil. You give of yourself to your country and your people, with a fervor I didn't actually think possible in a monarch, but you forget yourself, in the midst of it all...I don't know whom I would hate more, you or myself, if such an action, if it was merely... _expected_ , of you..."

"...I can't have children." She felt like something punched her gut, even as the words left her mouth. Half her worth as a Queen was that she was to further the line and ensure stability, and she could not even do that much. Commoners never had these terrors, the dread of not furthering the bloodline and producing heirs. They had that luxury, at least; "So many years with Cailan, and nothing came from it."

"I...am sorry." Fergus seemed...taken aback. She'd expected as much, considering this was far from publically known. Her father had made sure of that, he'd promised her as much. But the demon, the demon that had claimed his body as its own, it would have taken all that he knew, and served Howe with the knowledge. Howe knew...how many others now? "Are you certain?"

"Cailan was." she sighed. He'd been quite adamant at the few times when the issue had come up, that the Therin line produced only the healthiest of men, and so it could be no fault of his. She had scoffed, at first, but when the rumors started to spread, of bastards in the city and the villages, with characteristic noses and golden hair, it had seemed to support his claim; "I must confess, I did not look forward to when this would come up..."

"Do you...wish to end it, then? This." His tone was earnest enough, but she couldn't tell what lay behind it. Was he telling her that he no longer desired a part in this, regardless the influence he would gain? Or was he testing her, or something entirely third? Cailan, damn his juvenile soul, had for all his faults at least been like an open book. Fergus was not.

"What is your view of this, before I answer?" A voice not her own and yet entirely so voiced the question, and she caught herself in shock that she had spoken it aloud. Fergus too, seemed surprised, though the only indication she could point at was the raised brows. Anora swallowed and found some guts within her to speak again, hoping to forestall what she dreaded he might say, or at least to soften the blow; "I proposed the idea of our partnership, and you entered into it without full knowledge of my deficiencies. Should you...I would not blame you, should you wish to seek an end to this before it truly begins. A clean cut would be better for all."

"...Have you so little faith in me?" she was surprised at the disappointment in his words, even more so to see it mirrored in his face, though she could not meet his eyes. Not now, and the realization was a scathing one, as there should by right be no soul within her kingdom she could not face. And yet, she could not bring herself to look Fergus in the eyes, not now when he spoke with a tone such as this; "Anora..."

"Forgive me...I am not accustomed to..." Despite it all, her lips cracked with a smile that carried little mirth. How this situation was just so utterly beyond what she had expected of the evening, she could barely comprehend; "I'm not really yet used to having an equal, after so long with a king who played at war more than he cared for the throne..."

Fergus' expression budged but a little, and now seemed torn between wry amusement and the same, itching disappointment. Little by little though, she realized she could see it crack, and something akin to a smile started to spread, though it did not reach his eyes. He never smiled with his eyes, she'd noticed.

And despite the stress she felt he put her under, she could again not help herself but notice that he was not entirely unattractive.

"Do you actually wish to know what I think of this, or would you rather stall to prevent me saying what you fear I'll say?"

"I...- do not _fear_ anything you might say." She retorted, and yet it sounded weak even to her own ears; "I simply wish for us to be clear on this issue. I...was not thoroughly honest with you from the outset, and I would rather make up for this now than it become a...problem, later."

"You know..." she did her best to not let show the anticipation she felt at those two simple words, resting instead her chin on her thumbs behind laced hands, elbows on the table in as casual a manner as she could manage; "...I've never quite met someone so insistent on denying her own weaknesses as you...or, at least so proficient in making it sound as convoluted as possible."

"Is this what the commoners mean when they say the pot calls the kettle black?"

"...possibly." his lips creased yet again, and yet again his eyes remained of the same steel they always were. Had he always been like this, or was it what Howe had done to him that had made him so... _this_? "Still, no, I don't intend to end this."

"You don't." Why was she _asking_ him again like this? Did she _want_ him to say no? Maker's Breath, her own mind was rebelling against her.

"I don't." He repeated, picking up his cup of wine; "Anora, after I've come to know you, and...especially after your proposition, I've taken as careful note of who you are as I could...I'm not dissuaded."

"I suppose that's a compliment?"

"You don't want a compliment?" he mused, eyebrows rising just a little; "I could insult you instead, of course, if that's preferable."

"...I...just cannot figure you out, Fergus Cousland." She relented, rubbing a hand over her weary face. Maker's sake, this man was going to make her old before time, if these duels of words continued. She had attempted to explain herself to him, and he had simply just...turned the whole thing on its head and made it seem almost insignificant in comparison to... _what_ , exactly? What was he getting at, what was he _aiming_ for?

"I don't think I'm that much of a complicated man." He argued, leaning on one hand as he watched her, his expression a little bemused; "I think, rather, you have become accustomed to the people around you ever having motives that are either ulterior or outright concealed. Simplicity must to you seem like some strange beast, I'd wager."

"So you would think..." she sighed, because he wasn't technically wrong, but still; "But that doesn't change our current situation, regardless of your... supposed simplicity. I cannot have children, or at least that seemed the situation with Cailan."

"Cailan didn't spend a great deal of time at home, did he?"

"He...did not, no. Ruling was a job best divided, he found." She didn't want to talk about this, she did _not_ want to talk about this. Cailan's outings had caused her greater grief than she'd like to admit. She had taken her role as monarch seriously, whilst he had played soldier and travelled the countryside in luxurious parties, doing well enough at ingratiating the nobility, she supposed. She had still not been blind to the rumors. Better then, to pretend it was an agreement than his lack of anything resembling responsibilities. It kept the people happy, if nothing else, and saved some semblance of her own pride; "Why is this relevant?"

"...His majesty once paid visit to Highever." Fergus spoke without emotion, and she wasn't sure how to take that; "He spent little time at the actual castle, preferring instead to take his lodgings in town, at the tavern and...well, the brothels are not too distant from there."

"Are you implying my husband was unfaithful to me?" she dearly wished the fervor in her voice was real, even more so that he would think it was; "I'll remind you that you speak of your former king, Fergus Cousland, who fell in battle."

"A battle that he should have been no part of." Fergus sighed; "I agree with the General in that much, at least. Cailan had no place in the fighting, but insisted nonetheless because no one ever told him no...your father excluded."

"Except he didn't." Not on that night, and not through the battles that had preceded it. Her father had allowed Cailan to enter battle, and then withdrawn his own forces. In hindsight his intentions were clear, and should have been caught; "I fail to see how his prowess or participation in battles is any slight towards me."

"It's not, but..." whatever next he'd wanted to say, he didn't, instead stopping himself with pursed lips. The knife he had held over his meal was laid down, and his face fell into a frown; "...this takes us nowhere, Anora."

"Then, perhaps we should return to the point?" she didn't see the need to note that it was her own doing that took them from said point.

"Yes..." the meal has gone cold by now, and neither were interested, it seemed. Anora watched Fergus, trying to discern what he might be thinking. If this was how all Cousland men were, she almost pitied Talia for marrying into the family. Then she realized Talia at least _loved_ her Cousland, and said pity evaporated.

Her own impending marriage was somewhat less rosy, though she could hardly place the blame on Fergus. She realized he hadn't exactly responded yet though, and frowned at his silence.

"So...the point, then?"

"...I might have forgot, actually." The grin he gave her wasn't one that reached his eyes either, just like all the others. This time at least he seemed to have the decency to notice her irritation, and returned to a somewhat more normal expression, if something like that even truly existed; "You worry I'll be like Cailan."

"I...I believe I have indicated _nothing_ of the sort."

"Doesn't matter if you believe you've indicated anything." Fergus shook his head and stood, the metallic brace around his ruined ankle scraping against the floor, and clinked with every step he took; "Anora, if we are to carry through with this, and ensure the stability of Ferelden, then children or no we need honesty between us. I'll start, just to show that I mean it."

She found it hard to respond to that, and did not get the chance either before he continued.

"Cailan was unfaithful to you on at the very least enough occasions that no one in his entourage seemed surprised when he was to be found in Highever's brothels." If he was waiting, watching for her reaction to this, he didn't seem disappointed when she couldn't find the strength to feign surprise either; "He was more interested in running around the kingdom than running it, and left you with that task on your own...I'm not going to be like Cailan. My king or no, Therin or no, he was...not mature enough for the role, and didn't seem to take it as serious as he did his quests for glory. For reasons beyond my leg, I am not going to be exploring Ferelden on a whim, simply to escape my duties. I intend to stand at your side in more than mere words."

"I...must admit I'm a little...taken aback." Anora fought the urge to look away, despising the show of weakness it would have been. A heat rose in her that she couldn't remember having felt for months, if not years. It was nothing like lust, but...there was something there, she could feel. Something warmer than usually. But with it came also the small voice of fear, returning now that she was on the verge of gaining something that could be lost; "I hadn't expected you to be so...devoted, to this...but even still, what if we find out that I truly am...that other measures must be taken to ensure the line of succession?"

"I will not shun you, Anora, ever." She did not move away as he stepped towards her, ungainly as his gait was. His eyes, older than him by years, seemed to almost glow with the youth they had lost in Howe's dungeon; "I would not treat you in this manner like Cailan did. Never...so, that's my answer, when you asked what I wanted."

"...I'm not entirely sure how that answered my question." Her voice was weak and came out a little hoarse, for which she blamed the fact that this was all so much more intense than she'd wanted in an evening's meal. It was a good thing she hadn't stood yet, for her legs decidedly felt like they wouldn't be of much use.

Was this Fergus' attempt at wooing her, properly?

"You wanted to know my intentions. Anora, I intend to wed you, and to ensure that our time together shall be both longer, and happier than you were with Cailan." She nearly gasped when he took a knee before her, even though the action clearly caused him pain. And still he didn't falter; "If possible, I ask that you bear our children, and allow me to stand at your side through whatever may come. This, is what I want."

Because it...maybe wasn't an entirely wasted effort.

"Fergus, pl...- please get up, your ankle..."

"Not until I have your answer." She could see the agony he was hiding behind that mask of calm. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and his breathing was troubled by the exertion.

"What in the Maker's name _are_ you even doing?!"

"I'm asking for your hand, Anora Mac Tir." Somehow he found thát funny, though she could not find the joke, whatever it was.

"D-did you somehow forget this is already-"

"You propositioned _me_. Now I propose to _you_ , Anora." His eyes did not leave hers and she found that for once, she had no trouble returning the stare. Mostly because she couldn't quite muster the fortitude to actually avert her eyes; "If you accept, let it be of your own choice, not the duties of a monarch."

"...F- _Fergus_ , I'm...-"

A short knock on the door saw her foot miss his face by the barest of inches, a knee-jerk reaction if there had ever been one. Far from surprised, Fergus simply looked tired, almost to the point of outright irritation. His eyes did glance at her foot though. For reasons she couldn't entirely name - though she could probably have classified them if given the time - she sympathized with that irritation.

"Yes?" she called at the door.

"Pardon the late hour, Majesty, but there are guests at the door." She couldn't recognize the voice through the door, which meant it wasn't Mhairi, but perhaps rather one of the serfs, or a guard. The announcement was what truly made her cease, however. The Couslands couldn't already have arrived, lest by use of magic. _Then again...Talia is a mage._

"What possible cause might any guests have for interrupting in this late hour?" she asked, standing from her chair. Fergus followed suit, the metal encompassing his ankle rattling as he moved. She moved to and opened the door, finding one of the Palace guards before it. The man seemed relieved he hadn't interrupted anything _...abnormal_ , though she would stop the thought right there and not move further along that trail; "Yes? Who is it, then?"

* * *

"Ah, I was worried you'd be asleep."

Anora wasn't entirely sure how to react to the jovial, finely dressed, dwarven woman in the throne room. Most of the woman was hidden away underneath thick furs and cloaks, and her heavy boots had dragged the snow straight into the chamber, leaving wet prints on the floor. She wasn't alone either, accompanied by six other dwarfs, though as a stark contrast these were clad from knees to scalp in scales and plate.

"Queen... Aeducan?"

"I see I was at the very least introduced." The dwarf nodded, smiling; "I'd prefer Sorella though, if it's fine with you. Between monarchs I'm pretty sure we can dispense with the formalities, Queen Anora."

"Of course, of...course..." compared to her own chambers, the throne room was cold without the daily fires lit in the dozen of fireplaces around the hall. Her stately dress did not offer as much in the way of comfort in the face of cold as she'd have liked; "I must admit this is a surprising visit."

"Yes, well, but..." the young dwarf, and now that the shock had passed Anora realized that Sorella did indeed seem quite young, shifted on her feet; "It was kind of a spontaneous decision, really. The army comes home and I hear all about these newcomers who literally _flew_ in and pounded the Darkspawn from above...I had to see for myself the truth of the matter."

"Well you've come at a late hour. I do not know if a meeting would be possible, given the circumstances." Not to mention she could hardly _command_ Belisarius to get out of bed to meet a foreign - or not really - monarch, much as she would have liked to; "However, I would arrange a meeting with their leader if you'd like?"

"That'd be amazing, thank you." Sorella smiled and nodded, seemingly relieved; "Now...I noticed much of the city is in a state of...disrepair? Did any inns or guesthouses survive the battle?"

"Wouldn't you rather stay here?" Anora asked, surprised that the Aeducan had even brought up other options. Were dwarves less picky with accommodations or was it something else? Surely she hadn't already somehow offended her counterpart? "We have the rooms to spare."

"Oh, I...really wouldn't want to intrude upon..." when Sorella paused, her eyes past Anora, she turned and realized Fergus had made his way into the hall as well, slowly but surely. She'd, to her shame, almost forgotten about his disability at the news of a royal visit. A dwarven one at that, something she wasn't even sure had any precedence; "...I'm sorry, I just...you must be a Cousland?"

"Fergus Cousland, at your service, Your Majesty." Fergus offered the other queen a bow, as low as he could manage.

"You...know each other?" Anora asked, feeling more than just a little confused.

"I've met his brother, Aedan Cousland." Sorella offered; "Too alike not to be brothers. Except the tattoo."

"They...do look quite alike, I agree." Anora slowly nodded; "But no, you wouldn't be intruding. On the contrary, I insist. This is the first actual visit a dwarven monarch has paid to the throne in...?"

"Ever." Fergus stated; "It's never been done before. At least not recorded."

"Well, I guess it's high time for one, then." The dwarven queen nodded, though Anora wasn't sure if she was nodding at her or Fergus' words, and was given no time to consider it before Sorella stepped forward, her guards relaxing somewhat in their posture; "Queen Anora, on behalf of Orzammar and all of her Thaigs, I greet you as one Queen to another, and that we may grow bonds of friendship that time will only strengthen."

It took Anora just a few more seconds to process the words, and realize them for what they were. A verbal offer of friendship between rulers was commonplace as the first steps towards proper alliances. They just were not as commonplace _recently_ , simply because no one held an interest in alliances with Ferelden in its current state.

Apparently no one had told the dwarves.

"On behalf of Ferelden, by the power I wield as her monarch, I accept your offer of friendship, Queen Sorella." She took the dwarf's extended hand, which in itself was a somewhat awkward motion because it reached no higher than her waist. A glance about told her there were yet a few guards in the hall; "One of you, go to the cellars and fetch us wine and cups. Bring it to my personal chambers."

There were no words of acknowledgement, but two guards took off almost immediately, one for the cellars, the other for the kitchens. It struck Anora that of course the cups wouldn't be in the cellars and that she'd probably confused her people somewhat. Still, she paid it no visible heed and instead found a smile for her dwarven counterpart. Sorella cleared her throat and glanced at the hurrying guards;

"Actually... could you add to the wine? We haven't really eaten anything but bread and smoked nug since Oxford."

"Of course."

She gave a nod to the nearest guard remaining, trusting the man had heard the request. Watching the man scurrying off towards the kitchens made her remember the meal she and Fergus had shared, or failed to, since they had hardly eaten much, and how the whole thing had ended with him asking for her hand in a manner much more proper than her own proposition had been. It had been one her father would have approved of, had he yet lived.

And now, she was hosting the suddenly appeared Queen of Orzammar, establishing friendships and possibly even an alliance beyond what was owed the Wardens by the dwarves.

Tonight was a strange one indeed.


	5. A Sign of Things to Come

**A trend I have noticed in general on Fanfiction, almost no matter the author, subject, genre, quality or the size of a story, the sequel is never as popular as the first book. I've seen the rare exception to the rule, of course, but the trend still seems to hold true most of the time.**

* * *

Signs of Things to Come

* * *

Once upon a time, years ago when she had first enlisted in the Legion, Centurion Idoria Mallin had not thought herself to one day be stuck in the palace of a foreign nation, reading hymns, psalms and various works of literature with a princess.

The situation was somewhat surreal, especially when the entity that was Meridia, or Andraste as she posed here, was factored in. In all due honesty, considering the nature of the Daedric Princes it wasn't even a given that the Lady of Infinite energies was posing at all. For all she knew, the Daedra was indeed Andraste, though revealing the details to anyone would at best ruin relations and see her executed.

The Legate had ensured she understood as much.

Still, she would be lying if she said the position - temporary though it may be - of a tutor, and a possible influence on the mind of a future monarch, was one she loathed. Emilia was a sweet and kind child, too shy to even entertain the notion of arrogance that so often came with the authority, position and privilege that royalty offered. The girl very much embodied a kind of innocence hard to find in the children of peasants and commoners, and yet did not at all seem naïve for it.

It was a stark contrast to her own childhood, in a way. Before the raid on their farm that had left her parents dead and her an orphan, she had known about the hardships of the world, because her daily life very much had embodied it. Toiling away in the garden and the fields, struggling to afford the aid of a healer when their cow fell sick...all of it had taught her from an early age that nothing ever came free. And yet, she had maintained a sense that the world was ultimately just, somehow. That cruelty was punished and compassion rewarded, even if sometimes only with the good feelings it brought.

Then Redguards had slaughtered everyone she knew and loved, brutalized her world and set the farm ablaze. Being forced to the ground as a child, a boot on her back and made to watch as her father's head dropped from his shoulders, and her mother left a broken, battered mess tied to the burning farm...it stuck with a child.

Even now, she could still smell it, the stench of her mother as the fires consumed a body no longer capable of screaming. She could still hear the harsh laughter and foreign tongue of the strange men who had come out of nowhere from the west, and still, in her darker hours, feel the boot on her back. She still didn't know why they hadn't just killed her then and there.

But she had found out, back then, that a just world was not one anyone could find themselves entitled to. It had to be made, forged and won by the iron grit of soldiers if need be. And that was how she'd clawed her way to the Legion, just thirteen years old before the recruitment office. There had been looks, but no questions, and the Legion had become her new family from then on.

Princess Emilia Augustin had never had her innocence robbed away by marauders like that, but still seemed to grasp that justice was not a given. She understood that for there to be fairness and law, might was required to enforce it, and she understood that no matter how pious, a man could still be rotten.

It was a testament to her tutors, and made the time Idoria spent with her all the more enjoyable. The princess was aware, of course, that she was under constant watch, but seemed so used to the idea that it hardly affected her. Even as one of those watching pair of eyes almost literally belonged to what the Anders perceived to be their prophet, she acted towards Idoria with common courtesy and well-taught manners, and rarely the kind of reverent worship she had feared would be commonplace.

"Herald?" Of course, she could not escape the title. She had not expected to either, but had held some small amount of hope that she could retain her sense of self, rather than the mere...what, exactly, if not vessel of Andraste? The Princess, dressed so finely in her red dress with white sleeves, sat across from her with an expectant look in her eyes. In her hands was a book, the same as the one Idoria herself was reading from; "If it's too hard...?"

"No, no, I...forgive me, Princess. I was lost in thought." Learning to read wasn't what she had expected, given that she already had the basics down from her officer's training. But the Anders, and everyone in Thedas in spite of a shared spoken language, made use of a different alphabet, and given her role, it was best to be able to read the holy scripture, before she started trying to change it; "... _and fared no more. And Andraste went up to seek the Maker's wisdom, for the bath- battle to come._ "

"Almost." There was nothing patronizing or superior about the girl, no matter how many mistakes Idoria had made in her tutelage. Learning new languages as an adult was hard, far harder so than it would have been to learn it as a child. It was made somewhat easier by the language being the same, only with different letters and grammar; "Is it...strange, reading about your past life?"

Was it? Certainly it was odd, to read about events that had taken place so long ago yet seemed living memories to anyone who knew of them. Meridia had ceased her presence in her mind at these lessons, almost as soon as the man known as Maferath had entered the Canticle. The Daedric Prince had given no explanation, and Idoria had not wished to push her luck with the entity. But, it did lend some credence to the idea that there truly was some connection between Andraste and the Lady of Infinite energies.

"A little, yes." But more so because of the way the Daedric Prince reacted to it. She herself had no connection to any of this, and barely felt more when reading the stories of Andraste than she would have at any child's fairy tale; "I am grateful that you bear with my inabilities, however, Princess. I'm certain I was not what you dreamed of when hoping for your country's salvation."

"...I don't know." The girl hummed, quieter now. Everyone held the same apprehension, that somehow offending the Herald would nullify her return, or the Empire's aid. She had received reports from Laysh, that the reconstruction and recruitment of soldiers was well underway. Sevilius more than deserved his promotion to Optio, though it did mean fewer Quastors to handle the men; "Father always said the Maker would one day come down and cleanse the world of Darkspawn and deliver the people, but...The Maker won't come."

"No...I fear he will not."

"But, then it's good that you did, right?"

* * *

The skies held a hue of red so intense it almost went beyond what she could comprehend.

Around her, towering spires of granite and marble crumbled to the ground, rivers of blood seeping from every crack in the stone until it gathered in the streets between them, running in streams as broad as the streets themselves, and deep enough that her waist ended where it began.

Otherworldly howls filled the air, wails of terror and anguish echoed off the walls as human beings in their thousands were torn and ripped apart. The scene was one of absolute horror, beyond the capability of the human mind to take in and yet remain sane.

Eyes.

Eyes in the flames.

They were blue. They were so, so blue and resplendent that it caused her physical pain to look at them, and yet she wasn't allowed to look away. Her body would not let her flee and her head would not turn to let her avert her eyes. Even her eyelids betrayed her, forcing her to remain locked by the gaze of those burning, blue eyes.

Were they even eyes? More like flames, now, but shaped and positioned like eyes in the height a human's would be. Sorrow gripped at her heart, a deeper grief and regret than she could imagine possible. Guilt, overwhelming and scathing.

It all vanished in a blur, and she became aware of her surroundings when two arms wrapped around her from behind, and the river of blood was replaced with the mattress of a tavern bed. She was in a room, Aedan was at her side in the bed, and his arms held around her as if she'd been about to roll out of bed.

Her breath came quickly, hard and troubled, and she could feel the linens underneath her damp and cold with sweat. It had been a dream. A nightmare, nothing more. It was...it was just too real. She'd been so sure it had all been real. The terror, the anguish and the guilt, somehow so real that it seemed impossible for it just to be a...-

"...bad dream?"

Aedan's voice, the voice of her husband, was in her ear and his breath on her neck. The warmth of his body pressed against her back and his arms held her securely. She was safe, no matter the horrors her mind had brought upon her. She rolled over to face him, resting her face close to his.

She was safe, and they were still on the way to Denerim. It would be two days ride yet before they arrived at the capital, to face the son of Howe.

"...you okay?"

"I'm okay..." she assured him, closing her eyes as she felt his grip on her loosening a bit. The intimacy of his body pressed against her was enough that she could chase away the dreams, and focus instead on what was real, and what was hers; "...but I don't know if I can go back to sleep yet."

"Right..."

* * *

The night was dark, and full of terrors.

Thanryn Maryon had heard those words once, long, long ago when he as a child had been raised on the stories of stalkers in the night. Silent shades who claimed the lives of the unjust and the unfair, those who treated their peers with unwarranted disdain.

He had told his children the same tales, just as his parents had long ago been by their parents, and so on throughout the eons. There was no recording of just how old the saying was, only that every House spoke it to their children and younglings, ensuring that it was instilled with some degree of...authority.

His daughter, Brelyna, had taken the lessons too well by far. She was the diseased child of the House, and had been sent away as such before her actions could cause further shame...or bodily harm. For when the intelligent mind lacked the strands of realism that separated idealism from reality, the powers of a mage could and would quickly become more than just a burden, but an outright danger.

He had raised her well, or so he'd like to think. None of his children had ever lacked for anything, be it food, entertainment, care or tutelage. He and Delisi had provided it all, and more, and done their best to produce the most presentable children possible to the other Houses. Adurdal, his youngest, was already churning up the library to her heart's delight, and more so to his. Whilst it would have been preferable had she been keener on socializing with the sons of the other Houses, it was hard to argue against her passion for books when he found her nestled in an alcove book in hand, basking in the sun like a fat iguana.

Footsteps outside his study, the servants were finishing off for the day. Thanryn sighed and glanced back at his desk, richly carved oak from the Imperial province. If only one could actually _see_ any of the carvings for the amount of papers spread out across them. Most were records, book keeping and letters, but others were reports on the recent string of disappearances.

 _The night is dark and full of terrors..._

The words came back to him, causing a frown to spread across alabaster skin. Four heads of the minor branches of House Telvanni had gone missing, as had their families. The serfs had seen nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing, and not a trace had been to find in their mansions or towers. He had already written to Neloth, to try and gain the Elder's perspective on what was going on. One or two families disappearing, he could attribute to infighting or even the Morag Tong, but...something else was going on.

Something beyond the usual, and whatever it was had Delisi on the edge of her nerves. His own too, were frayed, though he did his best to keep it concealed whenever Adurdal saw him. He would not let his last remaining child see her father reduced to nerves at the infighting of the branches.

But still... it would be best if his family went away. Delisi and Adurdal could head for Solstheim. They'd be safer there, with Neloth, until whatever this was blew over. Rivalries had rarely resulted in entire branches disappearing, and Thanryn did not wish to test the waters by offering up his wife and daughter to whatever forces were at play.

" _Daelekil_." A short knock on his door and Delisi's voice brought his mind back to the present. His door was never locked, and opened up to reveal his wife entering with a tray of cups and a steaming pot; "You did not come down for tea."

"...forgive me, _daelha_." He sighed and resigned to the fact that no more work would be done tonight; "I was lost in thoughts and worries."

"The Saloth branch?" her face, still youthful and fine, was marred with a frown of concern much like his own. He could only nod, at the most recent case of a branch vanishing from the surface of Nirn. House Telvanni was either under direct attack, or someone was moving up the ladder by removing competition; "...Adurdal sleeps, and I have ensured guards are in every hallway. Doors and windows are barred and the serfs all sleep under guard as well."

"I know..." his soul was restless, even as he accepted the ceramic cup of steaming tea. The heat and vapors certainly helped the shivering cold that seemed to grasp at his skin and the tips of his fingers, but did little for his lingering sense of unease; "...how is she taking it?"

"...she's scared, Thanryn." It caused his shame and pain to hear his wife speak like this. Putting down his cup, he took her hands in his, caressing their backs with his thumbs; "...It's been four families now."

"I know."

"I...I don't know if we should stay in Morrowind." Thanryn's fingers froze, if only for a moment, at Delisi's words. Words that echoed his own mind, yet no doubt she meant for them all to flee. He couldn't, and he knew she knew that as well; "...I do not wish for you to remain here either."

"I must, _daelha_." He could not meet her eyes, and so watched instead her hands, and the way her delicate fingers laced with his own; "The Head of the House will call for a meeting. I must be here to answer the summons...but you do not have to."

" _Bahris_!" It was near to painful when she squeezed his hands now; "I will not leave you here to face an assassin's blade alone. Adurdal would never forgive you."

"...you can be a hard woman, _daelha_ , to use her against me like this..." There was no resentment or anger in his voice, for he knew she spoke the truth. Adurdal was not yet old enough to understand why he must stay if she and her mother went away; "...I have sent word to Neloth. Azura wills it, he will take you both in and keep you safe until this devilry comes to an end."

"...I do not agree with this, Thanryn." Delisi's voice thickened, her voice close to breaking. The fear she held concealed when their daughter was around she now allowed to be openly seen. He stood and embraced her, offering what consolation he could to his wife; "I do not agree with this. _I don't want this_."

"I know." He said no more as he held her, for what could he say? He didn't want this either, but with entire families vanishing from their homes without so much as a trace, his own couldn't get out of Morrowind fast enough. _By the Princes, what is going on?_

* * *

"You sent for me, Queen Anora?"

The throne room's doors had barely closed before the General spoke, lacing his question with the annoyance he no-doubt felt at being at her beck and call. The irony was that he really wasn't, though she had no intentions of calling him on it. If Belisarius wished to be obstinate, then by all means, as long as he did his job she could ignore it.

"Yes." She strode towards him, slow and measured steps to ensure _she_ remained the one in control. Far too often the Imperial made it feel like he was the one at home in her throne room, and she the visiting student to be lectured. She supposed she shouldn't feel too sorry for herself, seeing as the man had been stealing far too much of Cauthrien's time since the day she woke up. Compared to that she barely factored into his schedule, it felt like; "We received visitors last night."

"I'm aware." She...she wasn't actually sure whether to be surprised at that. More so, surprised at how he knew. Because she was damnably certain none of the guards had any interests in running to his desk with news. At the very least she hoped not; "...Majesty, I have over four thousand men inside the city and just beyond its walls. People don't get to the Palace without I know it."

"Well that just ruins the shock-value, doesn't it?" Sorella stepped out from behind the throne, disappointment etched in her expression. To his credit, for a man who'd never seen a dwarf before, Belisarius managed to only raise a brow.

"I wasn't entirely certain whether to trust my men when they said _what_ had entered the city..." the General shifted on his feet, steel boots scraping the worn rug. She'd need to get that replaced, just in case the Eastern Emperor actually came in person.

"First time seeing a dwarf?" Sorella huffed, sauntering to Anora's side. She had to admit, she liked the dwarven queen. Even though she was a conservative sort compared to humans, if what she'd heard about dwarven society in general was correct, Sorella was damn near a radical reformist. She could, and would, use that; "Don't look as surprised as I'd thought. Even most people from Thedas tend to look twice. Did at least on the trip here...That aside, I am Sorella Aeducan, Queen of Orzammar and her Thaigs and ruler of the Dwarves."

"Belisarius Cecium, General of the Seventh Legion of the Empire of Tamriel, and leader of the Western Expedition." It was a strange day when a commoner's title was longer than that of a monarch, Anora pondered. Belisarius took a knee before Sorella, as was proper, then stood and regarded the dwarven woman like he would a soldier. The Aeducan monarch seemed taken aback, just a little. _So that's what it looks like from the outside..._

"So...you came from the east, across the ocean?" Sorella wandered halfway around the general. His eyes tracked her, but aside from that he made no visible moves to keep an eye on her; "In flying ships?"

"Yes."

"...because?" the dwarf stopped, hands gathered behind her back as she glanced up at the comparatively towering man.

"The Emperor became aware of the threat posed by the Darkspawn." Anora knew this to be true, or at the very least consistent with what she already thought she knew. The Empire had landed in the Anderfels with much the same stated goal; "He would rather see the threat snuffed in Thedas than risk it spreading to Tamriel."

"Well..." Sorella paused, eyes narrowed just enough that Anora caught it. So he probably had too; "I guess that's good then..."

"I would assume so." Belisarius nodded, eyes turning to Anora; "Fergus is absent, I take it?"

"Fergus has gone to take care of an impending arrival at the gates." There was at present no need for the General to know more about who was coming, or why. He'd himself said he wanted as little as possible to do with the politics and court intrigue of Ferelden, so she'd do him the favor and simply not involve him with Nathaniel Howe; "He will be occupied for most of the day, I fear."

"Understood." He said, shifting enough on his feet that she could tell a change in subject was coming. When a man so lacked in expression, even the smallest thing was a tell; "Might I ask then, what the purpose of me coming here was? I assume it was not merely for Queen Sorella to have a look at the newest curiosities from the east? No offense."

"Oh none taken." Sorella mused, sauntering to his front again; "You're a stiff type, I get it, but I kinda like that too. I hear you're rebuilding the Fereldan army, and I want in."

"...beg your pardon?" Belisarius frowned, looking to Anora; "Forgive me, Majesties, but it was my impression that interactions between Orzammar and Ferelden at large were sporadic, at best. Even your trade relations do not move much beyond the occasional Lyrium transfer."

"It's a changing world, General."

"Plus, Orzammar really kind of needs some more trade." Sorella interjected; "We're drafting proposals for mining colonies on the surface in the Frostbacks, as well as regular settlements on the surface."

"Which of course means there'll be a need for some sort of compensation to the Crown, for allowing this." Anora stated. They had already agreed to most of this last night, but giving it to the General piecemeal was the better option.

"Orzammar already is prepared to offer a regular mineral trade with Ferelden, in exchange we're allowed to import foodstuffs, materials we cannot produce ourselves, et cetera. We're expanding the army too, and we need the food and goods to do it."

"I wasn't aware of Orzammar having enemies, beyond the Darkspawn." Belisarius frowned; "A new campaign?"

"You are aware of the Deep Roads, I take it?" Anora was the one to ask when Sorella simply nodded in her direction; "The Darkspawn use them to move around under the surface."

"You want to clear them out, I take it?" he asked, looking between them. Sorella nodded eagerly.

"Of course, we always want to clear them out. But now we're actively planning on it." The dwarven queen grinned and pointed to the map of Ferelden, the massive wooden carving on the wall; "Underneath Amaranthine lies the abandoned Thaig of Kal'Hirol. We want to reclaim it."

"I dread the answer but I still ask...are my forces requested to partake in this endeavor?"

"Well..." Sorella mused, and Anora found herself pondering a great many things; "You _are_ here to fight the Darkspawn too, yes?"

"Fighting your wars is not my objective here, Highness." Sorella seemed surprised at his response, and Anora suspected she was to blame for this. At least, partially. She'd given the dwarven queen far too much hope, she supposed, that Belisarius would eagerly jump at the chance to kill Darkspawn; "My mandate here is the defense of Ferelden and the rebuilding of her armies. I don't have the authority to invest sizable forces in underground expeditions for foreign powers."

"Understandable, really." Sorella sighed, rubbing at the back of her neck; "Can't fault me for asking, though, can you?"

"...I suppose not, no." Belisarius frowned; "Kal'Hirol, that's not a name I've seen on the maps."

"It's not on the maps because it was lost to the Darkspawn before the maps were made." Anora explained, noticing the General's eyes on the wooden rendering of her nation; "It's roughly four miles to the south of Amaranthine, and spans much of the Arling."

"There's a gate not far from Vigil's Peak, the Arling seat, right?" Sorella turned to her for confirmation, which she got; "All we'd need is to get to the gate, close it and then clean out whatever Darkspawn remain in the Thaig."

"Your own forces are insufficient?"

"For the moment. We're not yet done for the counting with the casualties from the battle, but...they're bad." The dwarf paused for a moment before going on; "I've managed as much as I have with my reforms, only because we lost nearly half the warrior caste in the battle."

"I cannot spare you forces, Queen Sorella." He said, and Anora had to stop herself from twitching at the tone of honest regret in his voice; "My men will soon enough be thinly spread across the countryside to safeguard Queen Anora's subjects."

"Of course, of course..." Sorella nodded dejectedly; "Believe me, I'm not faulting you your logic. You're not here to aid the dwarves, and sparing men to help us would probably risk your mission."

"...hypothetically, say you were to regain this Thaig, what would it change?" Belisarius asked, glancing at the map; "If your manpower is so thinly stretched, I can't imagine any immediate resettling."

"I'd initiate programs to encourage a population surplus, and for people to migrate to the new Thaig. It's another reason I'm keen on the foodstuff imports; It'll make resettling Kal'Hirol possible."

Ideas Anora herself had been more than impressed with, and one more reason she could see benefits in expanding upon trade with her counterpart. The dwarves had in abundance what Ferelden needed, and the same held true in turn. Or, it once would, before the Blight that had now corrupted so much of her country's bread basket that it was uncertain whether her own people could be fed.

"Could Ferelden support such an export of food?" Of course, he had picked up on it as well. Anora frowned but was unsure how to respond, given that she would probably have been disappointed if he hadn't; "It was my understanding that much of your farmlands was laid to waste by the Darkspawn, and the soil corrupted by the Blight."

"You are...not wrong." To admit even this much grated her nerves fiercely, especially that it was to him. Yet another case where she had yet to prove efficient as a leader, he was probably thinking. Why did she even bother herself with his opinions? "Much of the southern Bannorns has seen raids and corruption by the Darkspawn. We are planning to drain marshes come spring, to make more farmland available."

"...a question, Queen Anora."

"Yes?" The cautious tone to his voice was so strange she couldn't but humor him.

"Your agriculture, is it based on seasonal planting of the same crops?" before she could reply, he went on, giving her little chance for a word. There was a strange, almost unnatural curiosity and drive behind his words; "Your fields, do they hold the same crops with a crop one year and let them lie fallow the next?"

"I... _yes_ , we do...why?"

"The Empire uses three-step farming." He explained, as if the term would mean a thing, or whyever only working, what, a third of the year as she assumed he meant, was any improvement; "It's a vast improvement over your current system. With your permission I'll gather up what farmers are in the Legion and find those with the greatest expertize on agriculture."

"I'm...sorry, you'll what?" Anora found herself leaning forward in her seat, unable to immediately wrap her head around the man's words. It wasn't so much the concepts he was laying out, as it was the fact that he was laying them out at all, and so eagerly at that; "How would three steps rather than two improve the harvest?"

"I am not a farmer, your Highness. For me to explain how this works is...not easy." Belisarius' face tightened a fraction as he muttered something to himself, far too silent for her to hear; "If you will, I can have a group of men ready by the morrow. By Kynareth's grace, we will have what untainted fields you have left produce as much as had the Blight never once touched your land."

Her surprise was so that for several moments, Anora found words hard to come by. She would have dismissed the General's had he been anyone else to come with such fantastical proposals, but...she had no idea just how far ahead the Empire was. Certainly ahead, if it could send such forces to their aid. So, it stood to reason that they knew at least as much if not more of farming and its like, than Ferelden's farmers. It was so strange, being freely offered such a gift of knowledge.

For, it was free, wasn't it?

"I...must confess I did not expect this, General." She settled deeper, straighter into her throne, seeking an anchor in the uncertainty that was her mind, and the very room; "What made you think to make such an offer?"

"I am not made from granite, Queen Anora." She would have felt offended at his words had her own mind not often considered that very possibility; "If it be within my mandate to help, then I provide help. I might not be able to send forces to aid the dwarves, but I can help make it easier for you to trade, and for your peoples to recover."

She thought back, unwittingly remembering hers and Fergus' discussion on the very subject of the man before her, and the alliance he promised. More and more, the notion that she should suspect him, and by extension his Emperor, of deceit, left an increasingly sour taste on her tongue.

The Emperor had already given aid to her people in a time when no one else had. Not a one of Ferelden's fellow Andrastians had sent aid, and what aid Orlais was supposed to have sent never arrived, nor did the Grey Warden from Jader return. What worldly worth was the Chantry and the Divine truly of, when they so easily could and would ignore the plights of one of the most faithful of nations. Andraste was born here, for Maker's sake!

But the Emperor, a man of different gods and creed, a supposed heretic and heathen, he had sent thousands of soldiers to safeguard Ferelden and reforge her armies, and for all that time she had suspected deceit and subversion. They were traits her father had instilled from an early age, so as to ensure Orlais never again managed to take over.

But had she turned those very traits into something less than reputable, to so suspect a people that treated her own like brethren? A mere look from any of the palace's city-turned balconies would show the erecting of tents and shelters for her people now, with half of Denerim laid to waste. Imperials, not her own subjects, had been the ones to burn the bodies and heal the wounded.

The very Hero of Ferelden, the Drake of Denerim, was an Imperial, was she not?

"Your offer is accepted, General, and very much appreciated."

Her father would not have been pleased with such acceptance, she knew. But nor would he have ever foreseen the magnanimity of the Empire.

* * *

 **I'm not sure if the trend is one you've noticed - and I swear initially this was not a conscious nor deliberate decision on my end, but rather just something that happened - but whenever I make an authoritative character, be it a General, king or emperor, I tend to model them after some real life counterpart. King Wilhelm Augustin of the Anderfels, for example, is kind of like Alexander Nievsky, only not really but still.**

 **I'm not sure if that made sense at all, actually. I just like characters we know basically nothing about, because I can flesh them out to the point that they rival established characters. The Anders king, of course, does not yet, but it was merely an example.**


	6. A Miracle, Chance Encounter and Alienage

**A Miracle, A Chance Encounter and an Alienage**

* * *

"Ce- _Herald_ "

Kratorius corrected himself as he entered the study, realizing that his Centurion was in the company of Princess Emilia. Both looked up at his entrance, though only Mallin immediately stood to attention. Clad in almost ceremonial robes, rather than her uniform, the woman looked as out of place as he would at a banquet. Potentially. He'd never actually attended one.

Today was not a day he had looked forward to, yet he'd known for some time it would come. Word couldn't _not_ have spread about Meridia, or rather Andraste, and her declaration of what was dangerously close to wanting a reformation of the established Chantry. At best, it would provoke curiosity.

Riders from Tevinter had arrived at Hossberg's gate, a party of a dozen or so heavily armed and armored soldiers, and a woman who claimed the role of envoy of the Archon, the ruler of Tevinter. It made his skin crawl to imagine the outcomes this could bring, war not even being the worst among them.

"Legate Kratorius." She clasped her only fist over her chest in salute; "How may I be of service?"

"Envoys from Tevinter have arrived, asking for an audience with the Herald of Andraste." He gave a deferent nod to the princess; "Highness, I shall have to take away the Herald, if you would permit it. Your father also asks that you are in attendance."

"I shall allow it, Legate Kratorius." He'd never been good at dealing with nobility, especially their children. It always rubbed him all kinds of wrong that a child could wield such authority simply by the virtues of blood and birth. Still, the princess was one of the more tolerable cases, in that she made no effort to give him commands or corrections of any sort. It was a little more relieving than he'd want to admit; "Will we continue this later, Herald?"

"I would like to, Princess." Mallin answered; "We should see what the Tevinters have in store for us first, I believe."

Kratorius remained silent as they departed, leaving the princes and her retainers to prepare her for the audience. Meanwhile, he and Mallin walked through the corridors towards the throne room, his own steps a little more hurried than they'd need be. He was nervous, and he doubted she was blind to it.

"When you meet with these people, Centurion, keep in mind their history with Andraste. The Anders and those of the Chantry hold to the story that Tevinter killed Andraste and started the Blights. Tevinter denies the latter." It was probable she already knew these things, considering what her time with the princess was spent on, but still, he had to be sure; "Endeavor not to insult them, or our hosts...actually, the less you say, the better I believe."

"I understand, Legate."

"Good." He nodded to himself, even as his fingers hovered towards the pommel of his sword. He'd no intention of drawing it, but its presence was a reassuring one; "The envoy is a Tevinter noble, so show some measure of deference when addressing her."

"Understood. Sir, should I meet her in...these?" he paused when Mallin gestured at the robes she wore. She seemed far more a Chantry Mother than a soldier. But, maybe that was not so much a terrible thing, considering the circumstances. Their long sleeves also did more to hide her stump than armor would have.

"They'll have to do. The Tevinters might already be at the Palace, and I would prefer we reach the throne room before they." He had a bad feeling about this meeting, far too sudden and unexpected, and he could hardly concoct a tactic to counter what had already occurred. As if the Thalmor had suddenly appeared in Bravil; "Is M- does _Andraste_ respond to your calls? Will she speak if needed?"

"I'm not sure." Oh he was not keen on that at all. Daedric Princes, even those not considered wholly evil, were ostracized for a reason. They viewed mortals as little more than insects, and care not for their dreams or desires unless it could amuse them. He didn't _like_ dealing with that kind of being; "I'll do my best to at least get... _her_ to make an appearance."

"If that's the best you can do..." Damn the Daedra, this was all much too sudden. Their feet, his encased in steel and hers in soft leather, halted at the doors to the throne room. The guards, ever concealed behind their chainmail veils, stood at attention at the approach of their vaunted Herald, and gave little attention to him.

Within, King Augustin and his court was already in attendance, as was, to Veruin's dismay, the Tevinter envoys. The woman had somehow beaten them here, despite the distance. What struck him as even odder though, was how no one seemed to dare approach the woman.

Half a dozen men in chainmail and scale armor, draped in purplish cloaks, stood behind her as guards. They were distinct enough that he could easily tell them apart from the Palace guard. Tevinter soldiers, then.

"She is the one?" when the envoy, garbed in robes and cloaks to the point that barely even her face was visible, spoke, the voice was rough and hard, strained like a sick and decrepit old woman. From the way whispers and murmurs rose from the assembled court, likely she had only just now arrived, beating them by mere seconds; " _She_ is the one you all claim is Andraste reborn?"

"Who are you, Tevinter?" Instinct would have had Veruin reprimand her for speaking out of turn, but situational awareness trumped it, luckily. He couldn't immediately identify her tone of voice, and realized with some apprehension that Meridia was seeping into her words; "You swell with corruption and taint."

The woman, dark skinned like a Redguard yet with features that if not for the sickness would be fine, turned to watch her addresser. Veruin tensed, his toes curling within their boots. He would have given much for Dhevsa to yet be in Hossberg, but the world would have its irony in him having sent her to Tevinter not a week past. With Murzob on his way back to Laysh, and from there on Tullus' orders to Tamriel, he was on his own in this den of politicking and Daedric spin.

"I...I am Tamara Pavus, of House Pavus." The woman, Tamara, seemed to have felt it as well, the inhuman tinge behind Mallin's voice. To the men of the Legion she was fast becoming a Saint, and to the Anders a Herald of their prophet, and now the one behind it all was making its play; "I was sent from Minrathous as an envoy, to verify the truth of the rumors, that Andraste has returned."

"How did you come by your illness, Tamara Pavus of Tevinter?"

"...along the road, we found a caravan under attack by the Darkspawn. We slaughtered the creatures, but only a small boy survived the attack, and was tainted for it." Wheezing breath came out, and the Tevinter soldiers glanced uneasily amongst themselves. Whispered too, though Veruin couldn't hear a word they said; "I had thought to save the boy by bringing him here, that you could take the taint from his body...instead I did, and he died in my arms just hours before we saw the walls."

"You would bring the taint into my city, Pavus?" King Wilhelm rumbled, his expression hardly pleased. Veruin could hardly fault the man, having seen now what the taint looked like in person. Black veins and clammy skin, it brought back the stories of the Blight in Tamriel, and underlined why it must never be spread to the Empire again; "Such acts have started wars."

" **Her intent was to save a child, King Augustin**." There was even less of his centurion in her voice now, and the king seemed to sense the same, leaning back on his throne. The princess had appeared at his side without Veruin noticing, and now watched with open eyes the proceedings; "Will you let me lay my hands on you, Tamara Pavus of Tevinter?"

"... _can you?"_ the woman's voice, weak and hoarse, was enough that some instinct within him made Veruin back away. There was _wrongness_ in the way the taint warped its victims; " _My own_ magic could do little but _slow_ its _crawl through_ my body."

"...Lie down." Soft words, yet spoken with an authority surpassing any the Legate himself could have mustered. For a moment, he himself even wondered whether he should do so, before his mind caught up and dissuaded him from the notion. Around the throne room, however he could see others coming closer to the actual act.

When his eyes tracked back to the Tevinter envoy, she was already prostrated before Mallin. He hadn't even noticed her lying down. The Centurion, or rather, Meridia, commanded more respect and obedience than he was comfortable with.

Silence reigned throughout the hall as Mallin, though Veruin knew not if it was truly her or Meridia, knelt by the envoy's side. Barely had he drawn a breath before a golden light outshone any other light in the throne room, almost similar and yet utterly different from what so many knew as restoration magic. The Centurion's hands were awash in the light, so brilliant that it scorched away his breath and pained his eyes.

This was not mere magic.

Was that...was someone _chanting_? At first he thought for sure it was his mind playing tricks, until the sound grew stronger. Beyond all doubt, he could hear chanting; words of a language he couldn't even hope to speak, yet sounded... _familiar_ , somehow.

It was with a start that he realized the chanting came from Mallin herself. Far from the authoritarian voice of Meridia, this was like the voice of a mother, or a lover. Soft and gentle words and tones, his skin felt as if the mere act of listening was warming it up. From the court itself now, voices joined in on the chant, men and women both adding their voices to the song-like hymns as if it were a sermon, and not a Healing they witnessed. And yet he found himself tempted, drawn to the song and the words he couldn't understand.

Gone, like snow from a sunny field, was his apprehension.

And as the lights dissipated and the envoy slowly rose, free from any signs of the taint, he was instead filled with a reverence beyond his ability to explain, nor comprehend.

To hear of this was one thing, and one thing that he could and had dismissed as the Daedra manipulating mortals to suit its designs. But to see the taint, the incurable sickness, burned from the body of a woman on the edge of death or worse, and then to watch her stand again, as if risen from the grave...

He could put no other words to this than 'Miracle'.

Rules be damned.

* * *

They were three days through the journey now, and well into the Amaranthine arling. The road had hours ago started going south, and the Hafter was behind them. The steep hills and mountainous landscapes of Highever Teyrnir were slowly but surely replaced by the gentler slopes of arable farmland, though much now lay beneath a thick, white blanket.

The early noon's sun was not yet entirely free of the hills, and didn't yet do a whole lot to beat back the morning air's frozen reception.

Fereldan winters were _cold_ , but not as cold as the ones in Skyrim. That, at least, had grown her some rather thick skin pretty early on. When the trip between the Frozen Hearth and the College could quite literally kill a man who went unprepared, you either learned to deal with cold or you went sober.

She'd never cared particularly much for the latter, and so necessity had forced her to bite down and get through the harrying blizzards Winterhold was so famed for, even during spring. The same precautions that had served her well in Winterhold (her kidneys less so) also applied well to Ferelden. Her thick cloak, long wooly leggings and robes did well to keep most of the cold from her bones. And what they lacked, she could make up for relatively well with her own magic.

Thank the gods Fereldan fashion was practical.

She'd have died of the cold if she'd had to ride sidesaddle in a frilly dress. She did almost pity the knights in their escort though. There was only so much padding you could stuff under plate armor, and Ser Jory looked like his ears were about to fall off. That or his nose, considering the latter's size one would think it could heat the air before he breathed.

"You're being awfully quiet." Aedan mused, trotting his horse next to hers. His steed, a fine Fereldan courser of a breed she didn't know yet, seemed surprisingly fine with the proximity to her mare. Though the Bann had assured her of its quality, she'd still been a little apprehensive about the trip on a horse she didn't know; "Pray tell, what has confounded you, oh wife?"

She knew he loved to call her that. It'd been more than a week and he still bounced around like he couldn't fully believe it was true. To be fair, neither could she really, not at first, at least. That she was now married was...well, she'd probably get used to the idea eventually, but it still seemed so unreal that she sometimes worried it might all be a dream.

"Admiring the scenery." She hummed, and technically it was true. Fereldan winter might be cold, but it _was_ a pretty sight. Sparkling snow and mounds that seemed absolutely devoid of edges, trees with countless stalagmites of ice. The occasional trails of paw-prints in the otherwise pristine snow betrayed where wolves or foxes had trodden, yet they had yet to see anything alive but traveling merchants or peasants on the road. Her eyes trailed to his face, showing some stubble from the days on the road; "It's a _very_ appealing scenery, you know?"

"Mmm." He definitely understood what she meant, and seemed far too self-satisfied with it too. Still, she didn't really mind throwing some compliments his way occasionally, considering he did the same on a daily basis. His smirk was too infections by far though, and she ended up grinning herself, hiding her face away in the scruff of her robes. Damn it, he was _such_ a goof, and probably didn't even realize how much she loved that; "So...I've been thinking."

" _Ouch_."

"Cease thy mockeries, wench." He grinned, and she had to as well at his strange words. She'd heard those from enough people at this point to understand it was a cultural thing, much like foreigners might not understand random quotations of the 'Flying Amphitheatre' among Imperials; "I've been thinking of names."

"The Howes?"

"Wha- no, no not-..." His good mood darkened for but a moment, his expression hardening briefly before he seemed to shake it off; "I mean...for when the baby comes."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Y-you have?" Divines above, she _hadn't_. Aedan had been thinking of names and she hadn't even considered just how gods-be-damned important that might be to at the very least start considering! "I mean, you too?"

"...any kind of magic that'll tell you if it's a boy or a girl?"

"Not..." was there? She'd never heard of it, but then again it'd never really been all that relevant. Now that it was she had no one to ask; "...that I know of, no. A baby doesn't actually have a gender...until..."

"What is..." Aedan's question died on his lips as he too came just a meter more forward, and saw what she had seen over the crest of the hill. Hundreds of soldiers, all in plate and chainmail with banners and standards, marching towards them in two single-file columns. Precise and orderly, they marched with drilled and disciplined precision, the sound of armored boots on the Highway echoing off into the distance. She _knew_ what they were, _who_ they were.

 _Imperial Legionaries_.

"...what are those?" Ser Jory halted his courser close by, the horse scraping the ground nervously; "M'lady, would those be your kinsmen?"

"...yes." she breathed, and she herself didn't know if it was a sigh of relief or something else. She knew the Empire had been in Ferelden proper for weeks now, ever since the Thirteenth had made landfall weeks ago. But to see them, to see Imperial plate and banners, she had never known it could be so nostalgic; "They're Imperial soldiers. Legionaries. Looks...like a Cohort."

"A Cohort?" Aedan asked, shuddering from the cold. The approaching column was roughly a hundred meters away now, approaching even as they themselves had stopped. Not a single step was missed, though she knew they'd been seen. A _IV_ on the banner declared them as the fourth cohort, which meant they were the ones usually garrisoned in Camlorn.

"Roughly five hundred foot soldiers." It looked like they were that too. No auxiliaries in sight and only a single rider present. Clad in chainmail and plate, and with the belts and ornaments of rank adorning his armor, the officer seemed to be keeping an eye on them, but was himself obscured from view by the closed helm he wore; "Legions usually consist of ten cohorts. Plus auxiliaries, and sometimes the first Cohort is larger than the others. That'll make their officer a Centurion."

"You know a lot about this." Aedan mused, though really she didn't. The Fifth Cohort was stationed in Evermor and occasionally she could see them drilling beyond the city's walls. But aside from that she knew only what Aveel had occasionally boasted when talking of the Bretons' influence on the Legion's strength; "What should we do? Greet them?"

"Common courtesy, I suppose." She nodded, steering her mount onto the right side of the Highway, to make room for the approaching soldiers. The officer was at the middle of the column, and close enough now that she was certain it was a man; "I'll lead, if you don't mind."

"Feeling nostalgic?" her husband hummed, a light teasing tone to his voice. At least he was at ease around the Legion, which was a good sign if the Empire was here to stay. Then again, Aedan _was_ remarkably open-minded for Fereldans. She'd yet to meet a lot of people on the opposite end of the spectrum, but the vast majority was somewhat more conservative. That or they simply didn't care either way.

"A bit, yeah..." she couldn't quite deny the feeling. Watching Imperial soldiers again was almost like being back home. _Truly_ back home, and not merely with family, but back in Evermor. Back in the Empire she so loved. Watching their splendor as the rising sun shone on their steel, listening to the mounting voices of the lower officers keeping their men in check, keeping them marching in tune...She damn near shed a tear.

"They're all uniformly armored." Gilmore remarked.

"State troops, must be, these Legionaries." Jory noted, and he wasn't actually wrong. It was strangely easy to think the man simple, or slow given his speech and mannerisms, but he'd turned out neither. _Would he have made a good Warden, I wonder?_ "Like Tevinter Legionaries?"

"Just don't block their path." Talia said, pushing her mare forward - and she really had to come up with a name for her. The Bann had somehow forgotten to mention it when he'd gifted her the beast, and everyone had been too drunk at the wedding and afterwards for her to actually ask him; "They'll push the horses aside if need be."

Coming close now, she could see the officer watching them. Or, she could tell he was, since his eyes were hidden away behind the helm. Giving her mount a final nudge, she approached respectfully, making sure no arms were bared. She didn't actually _have_ weapons with her this time, but still, the point should be made.

"Emperor's Greetings, Centurion." She had seen soldiers saluting with a clasped fist before the heart, but knew nobility did no such thing. Instead she offered the man a deferent nod, keeping her hands on the reins.

"Emperor's Greetings." The man responded in kind, his gruff and baritone voice betraying him as an Orc behind the helm. She'd no issue with Orcs who served the Empire, especially those who did so with such diligence that they rose in the ranks; "You seem aware of us, M'lady...?"

"Talia, of House Aulus of Bankorai." It was hard to read body-language through so much armor; "It is good to see the Empire again. I've missed the Dragon banners."

"They are worthy of pride, M'lady." The Orc nodded.

"I'm robbing your time, Centurion." She realized the column hadn't stopped marching and would soon leave them behind; "Where might you be headed?"

"Soldier's Peak, it's called. Fortress to the north of here." The Centurion gestured, though not even the mountains could be seen behind them; "We're to clear it out of whatever haunts the old halls, and restore it to house the new Royal Army's headquarters."

"Soldier's Peak is in the Cousland Teyrnir." Aedan remarked, causing the officer to turn towards him. Did Aedan even know he was an Orc? "We've received no word of this."

"Pardon, M'Lady Aulus, but I must accompany my men." It was less of an excuse and more of the truth, she knew. The last men were nearly past them; "If you're headed for the capital you might ask there. The General would certainly not mind your presence."

Belisarius was still in Denerim? Somehow she'd imagined the commander of the Legion to be traversing the countryside by now, or floating through the skies in his airship. Then again, no rumors had actually spread of those things moving very far from the capital.

"Thank you, Centurion." The man was clearly uncertain if he could get away with interrupting Bretoni nobility, even here. She took some pity on him and gestured for him to move on; "Gods speed your work."

"And yours." He offered her a nod, and then did the same with Aedan after a moment's hesitation. Already he had to kick his mount in the sides to catch up to the front of the column. No doubt those soldiers would be having fun with that. They themselves, on the other hand, were left in brief, if somewhat awkward silence.

The knights in particular, the ones unaware of her overseas ties, seemed perturbed and downright confused. Hard as it was to read faces through visors and bassinets, she could still tell there were questions. Well, it wasn't like she _owed_ them answers, and if anything they could bloody well just ask Roland. He'd been sticking around long enough at this point to know. _And sticking it in Brely- no, no bad! Bad mind, bad!_

"What's wrong?" she'd noticed the frown on Aedan's face before the Centurion had even left earshot. For obvious reasons she hadn't said a word until after he was gone, and the only reminder of the Legionaries' presence was the fading echo of marching feet.

"Why weren't we informed of the mission to Soldier's Peak?"

"...I can't say." She shrugged, because honestly this was either Anora or the General doing something without telling, and she could tell the mind of neither; "Anora's the Queen and can act as such, though I don't know Fereldan laws well enough to know if..."

"...technically she _can_ act without informing us, yes." Aedan sighed and nudged his mount forward; "But it's not done. What about the General?"

 _"...dunno."_ she sighed in turn, staring at her saddle then looking back up at the skies. The sun didn't go very high above the horizon these months, and what light it cast was...sparse, but pretty and sharp; "I don't have any authority over him, if you're hoping for that...Thank _fuck_ too, actually. If nobles could order the Legion around it'd be civil war in no time."

* * *

It was a well-known fact that of Ferelden's three Alienages, those being of Highever, Oxford and Denerim, the latter's was by far the most crowded. Oxford, the grain store of Ferelden seated on both sides of the southern source of the Hafter, was next, its Alienage being slightly larger but with a similar population, and better standards for housing, but crowded all the same.

Highever's Alienage was known to be close to indistinguishable from the commoner districts of the town. The streets were more or less maintained, cobblestone, wooden boards or simply stomped dirt, and the houses were as straight and upright as one could ask for. The Vhenadahl was at the center of what could otherwise have been a market square, richly decorated with paintings and shallow carvings that barely went through its bark, and filled with yellow and red ocher to give off an almost mystical appearance. In fact, if not for the sacred tree and the walls separating the Alienage from the rest of the town, one would be hard-pressed to even realize one had entered the Alienage.

Especially because there was a distinct, and disquieting lack of elves.

Daveth walked these streets for hours upon hours. Nesiara... she had to be here. Highever was his only link to her, and more than he'd like to admit he was begging the Maker to let him find her again.

But with each corner turned, and each empty, darkened window, his heart sank lower and lower. More and more, the sense that something was horribly wrong refused to leave his mind, and what had started a cautious walk now became frantic running. The streets and facades threw his own voice back at him as if to mock him, and the only other sound greeting him was the padding of his own shoes on cobblestone, and the stray cat or dog rummaging through garbage.

"Nesiara!"

But no matter the corner.

" _Nesiara_!"

No matter the street.

"Nesiara! Where _are_ you!?"

No matter the house or the square.

" _Anyone_...?"

Finally, as he fell to his knees in the square of the Vhenadahl, Daveth's mind forced a single, terrifying realization upon him. It made his heart race and his blood freeze in his veins, and the world seemed to sail around him.

There was not a single elf in Highever's Alienage.

* * *

 **Honestly, did you actually think I would give Daveth his happily ever after, just like that?**

 **Gotta wonder what happened to all the elves...**


	7. Back to Denerim

**Return to Denerim**

* * *

Change was in the air.

Much of the area just beyond the walls of Denerim could no longer be called fields. Instead they were a camp, massive in scale and size, with hundreds of tents, scores of barracks, kitchens, armories and more. The Legion was encamped out here, and had raised in the span of days a camp that would have taken her own people weeks or more to put up.

But then, the Fereldan army had never made anywhere near as extensive use of mages as these Imperials did. Cauthrien pondered this as she made her way down what had effectively become a street beyond the walls, planks of wood slid against each other to form a complete cover from the muddied ground, then overlaid with flat stones to the point that this makeshift road was of higher quality than most within the city. Around the camp, in the span of mere days, the soldiers had dug a surrounding trench, three times as deep as she was tall, and used what they'd dug up to form a low earthen wall behind it, then constructed stockades atop those ramparts. Finally they had coated it with some strange muddy mixture they called concrete, and she had found herself lacking for words when the mixture had hardened and become as stone.

In mere days they had fortified the camp, and had barely used their mages at all. She had only seen their magic implemented to produce the timber needed. The Darkspawn had burned down much of the surrounding woodland on their march to Denerim, and so the Legion's mages had simply... _made_ timber, straight from the very air.

The camp, massive though it was, was at the same time incredibly simplistic in layout. A single crossroads formed the center of it all, broad streets meeting in a perfectly symmetrical square almost the size of the one before the Palace. Here she had watched on several occasions as hundreds of men performed the strangest of formations and drills, not all of them making immediate sense to her. They would run about and change places, men and women in as many as three different types of armor switching positions at the sound of a strange brass instrument the officers called 'whistles'.

There was no denying their discipline though, no matter the strangeness of their drills. Compared to these eastern soldiers, the Ferelden army had at best been an organized, armed and armored rabble. She had never thought it possible for large groups of fighters to act with such cohesion and organization as she was just now witnessing, and the experience was a humbling one.

"General Cauthrien." She turned at the voice and the sound of steel-clad boots on the stone. General Belisarius Cecium, a name as exotic as his army's drills, approached her with his helmet in the crook of his elbow, his other hand wielding a stick. She'd seen it used by the lower officers as well, usually to hit undisciplined soldiers much like one would a horse; "Greetings. I was not aware you had planned to visit."

He reminded her a lot of General Loghain, and she wasn't sure if it that was good or not. Memories of the man she'd served for so many years had become tainted with his actions at Ostagar, and to know he had succumbed to the might of some demon inspired little but pity.

"I like to observe your drills and formations." She replied easily. Much as she was uncertain as to his character, the General was a professional soldier through and through, something she could only respect. It was by far easier talking to men like him than with civilians, people with no notion of what command entailed. That meant the nobility, more than any others; "Yet many do not quite make sense to me. I must confess that the discipline your soldiers display humbles me somewhat."

"Good." He said, continuing before she could ask; "That means you're willing to learn. Your Queen, intelligent as she is, that I won't dismiss, is more reluctant to."

"Her Majesty has governed Ferelden for years."

"And done better than most, yes." Belisarius nodded; "But better than most won't suffice unless the field is evenly set between Ferelden and her neighbors. Tell me, Orlais has recently been through a civil war, yes?"

"Indeed. Gaspard de Chalon has been crowned Emperor."

"He is a military man, as I understand it?"

"A General, yes." She nodded; "Very popular with the soldiers and lower nobility, as well as a great portion of the commoners...You suppose he will attempt an invasion, given our weakened state?"

"It's not to be dismissed." He frowned, eyes tracking over the drilling soldiers; "Power begets power, and once you've become Emperor only conquest will increase your standing."

"Should he decide to invade..." this was uncertain territory for her, to act as a diplomat. And yet few could do this better than her, one career soldier to another. But she needed to know. Ferelden needed to know for certain what role the Legion would play, should Chevaliers violate the borders.

"My mandate is to rebuild your armed forces and safeguard Ferelden's sovereignty until such is accomplished." There was little enthusiasm to the man's words; "Should hostilities erupt, by the Emperor's orders I shall defend Ferelden to the utmost of my abilities. My men will not, however, act as offensive forces."

Cauthrien wasn't sure if he noticed her breathing a sight of relief.

"I could ask for no more, General."

"No, I suppose not..." he nodded to himself before meeting her eyes again; "Actually, if you'd like a demonstration, we can visit the drilling fields."

"The fields?" True, she had noticed how the fields trampled flat and tainted by the Horde, had been taken over by the Legion. They'd burned the taint away, scorching the entire area with magical fire. The method was hardly new, though the speed at which it'd been done certainly was; "I suppose I've got the time."

"Very well then." She waited as Belisarius fastened his helmet on his head, an impressive piece reminding her very little of any type she'd seen in Thedas so far. A single mane, almost like on the neck of a horse, rode the top of the helmet in a straight line; "If you would follow me?"

"Of course." It went unspoken that she knew where they were going, however simple courtesy bid her to let Belisarius lead the way. These were his soldiers, and as a General herself she understood some of the thoughts he might be going through. Or, at least she assumed so. Maybe Imperial Generals had entirely different perspectives on the functioning of an army.

In hindsight, that much was almost a given. Their armies worked on entirely different levels, so naturally Imperial officers had different ideas as to how they should be run. Whether those were better or worse than how Ferelden had been doing things, time would tell.

Outside the concrete walls and the trench, the fields stretched for hundreds of meters each, most of those closest to the city now trampled and burned to infertility. For reasons not immediately clear to those unaware, a few of these had been drawn up with clear edges and borders, and made so plain it was hard to find a single bump or hole in the ground.

General Belisarius led her to one of these fields, whereon half a thousand soldiers were in the midst of their drills. It had been easy to tell, even before she saw them, by the noise of their officer's whistles. It was still difficult to imagine the resources needed to field armies made from ten of these 'Cohort's, a term she was unaccustomed to. Just how vast was the Imperial treasury, to pay for so many soldiers and so much armor and so many swords and spears and bows?

" _Cohors Cesset!_ " The shout came from one of the Centurions on the field, followed by a sharp whistle of their...whistles. She had no notion of what it meant, the words being the alternate tongue of the Imperials. It was very much similar to what she'd sometimes heard in the Chantry during sermons, though. Yet still as different as their written word was to Ferelden's. Still, its effect was the complete ceasing of activity amongst the soldiers. _Cohors Cesset...Cohort...cease?_ It was not...entirely impossible that was what the words meant; " _Respice ad sinistram!_ "

There was no clue as to what those words meant, however. Still, they were put into effect when five hundred men and women turned as one to face in their direction. The discipline on display was admirable. It was more akin to watching the gears of an engine than a mass of soldiers. The rows upon rows of uniform, steel armor only further added to the impression, and the two-meter spears they held stabbed the skies perfectly straight.

"Orlais primarily relies on heavy cavalry, yes?" Belisarius inquired. It was a moment before Cauthrien realized she'd been addressed, too fascinated with the machine-like precision of these soldiers. Truly, the Royal Army was little but a mob in comparison; "General Cauthrien?"

"Yes." She blinked away the confusion and focused; "The Chevaliers are amongst the heaviest and best trained cavalry on Thedas. Those from their ranks in the Grey Wardens are said to be the greatest warriors in the world... _known_ world, that is."

"Warriors, then, but not soldiers?"

"Difference being?" she asked in turn, and wasn't sure if it was reassuring or not when the man _smiled_. It was too self-satisfied by far.

"Vast." He hummed; " _Insignificant_. One on one, I do not doubt a Chevalier could unhorse most Imperial cavalrymen, and on foot defeat most if not any Legionary, even the Triarii. But even the mightiest warriors stands little chance before discipline and resolve."

"I see." What he said made sense, of course. A disciplined army was one of the reasons Tevinter had been able to conquer so much of Thedas, after all. Refusing to take that as a lesson would be foolish. _Yet what I saw at Ostagar had little to do with discipline...rushing headlong at the Darkspawn as if we could beat them in a melee..._

Belisarius hadn't been shy about his opinions in that regard. He'd let her know, and probably Queen Anora too, just how little he thought of their military ingenuity. Bann Teagan had at least earned some acknowledgement by ensuring cohesion until the battle was joined. But somehow, the man next to her was certain his soldiers could and would maintain that cohesion in the midst of battle.

"Centurion Pullo?" the only Centurion involved snapped his crested head about and stood at attention, as rigid as a board. The General had not even had to shout to make the man snap to; "Inform the field engineers I want them to participate in a drill, half an hour from now. They are to bring with them our scorpions...inform the Artisanii as well that I want their presence here."

"General." Nothing more was said as the man, no, _Orc_ , took off with a speed humans could not in such armor. She hadn't yet gotten used to the green Qunari-like soldiers, but could not deny their devotion to the Legion, nor their endurance.

Minutes passed by, and Cauthrien started realizing that true to himself up so far, Belisarius was perfectly willing to endure the wait in silence. The men on the field, too, said not a word. Had they been Fereldan, doubtlessly many would have sat down by now when their immediate superior was gone, but these remained standing, at attention and ready.

"I wonder..." she broke the silence when something approaching twenty minutes had passed; "Queen Sorella approached you for assistance."

"She did, yes."

"You declined."

"I did, yes." He replied in the exact same tone; "My mandate does not extend to sending forces to aid anyone but Ferelden. Orzammar is an independent faction in this, and so beyond my mandate."

"...I can't help but notice there were a lot more healers around before." She made the point sound idle, but it _had_ been rubbing at the back of her mind. She'd come to understand how heavily the Legion relied on logistics, and that each Cohort had dedicated healers in the dozens, as well as the Legion having its own hospital. And yet, a few days ago it seemed half a hundred of them had simply vanished from the streets, as well as the camp; "You're not concerned they will be needed here?"

"Dedicated healers are crucial to a successful military campaign, yes." He agreed with her, but she wasn't sure on what exactly; "However, the current situation cannot be described as such."

"...I see." His tone really did say all that had to be said. Healers currently being unnecessary, given the lack of an active, military conflict, seemed to exceed what Belisarius' mandate required of him. Apparently they did not count as 'military forces' when merely idling around camp. Was he being hypocritical? "...I suppose your mandate still stands, then."

"It does, yes."

"I see." She repeated, for lack of better. It seemed, even though he had the personality of a Qunari, there was some empathy behind that mask of steel. That, or he was playing some long-term game of military pragmatism that she couldn't yet see. What would he, or the Empire, get from potentially retaking Kal'Hirol? "The Centurion you sent off, he was to bring back artisans?"

"Artisanii." He corrected her, not missing a beat; "Specialized group of our mages. They're conjurers, and we use them often to simulate battles to better train the men."

"Is it effective?"

"Very." He nodded; "The harder you train your army, the easier your men will find the battle."

"That sounds logical." She agreed; "Anything specific?"

"Training weapons need to be heavier than the real stuff." Belisarius noted; "Ideally half again as heavy. We scale it up to double the weight for Orcs and Nords, typically."

"The Orcs I can understand, but Nords?" She'd seen the people described as such, and aside from the prevalent facial hair, saw little that made them stand out as such.

"Nords have a somewhat denser musculature. You don't see it but you can always feel it." She'd not heard of that before. Qunari, she knew, had been said to have the same trait, but it was usually dismissed; "Their higher metabolism and thicker skin also gives them an advantage in cold environments."

"Fascinating." And it was, truly. To think the Empire could field such a diverse mix of races, many almost to the point of being genetically destined for specific battlefields, was an impressive feat. Of course, it would only work if they all worked towards the same goal, under one banner; "Nords are a different breed of human, then?"

"Of course." He nodded; "Bretons and Imperials and Redguards are different too. Each province is home to its own race, with varying purity. The Imperial Heartlands, as you might expect, hold almost every race in Tamriel. It is the melting pot of ideas and cultures where only those that are superior have won out."

"And, which might that be?"

"Meritocracy, for one." Belisarius stated; "With every race having its own version of the pantheon, it is only prudent to ignore it as best one can. The Imperial Pantheon does, of course, reign supreme in the Empire. We do not impose it on others, though. It is simply dominant for coming closest to the truth..." he paused, and she felt like he was giving her an odd look; "...at least, as we perceive it."

"I see..." Ah, religion. It was hardly a subject she suspected they would ever agree on. The Empire's belief in several deities was simply too foreign to the Chantry, and the Andrastian people. She could only hope something similar would happen here as had in the Empire; that meritocracy would win out, and beliefs be respected; "...those men approaching...?"

"Ah." He turned to where she gestured, and saw too the four robed individuals approaching; "The Artisanii. Good."

They looked no different than the other mages, really. The same armor, the same robes and the same gear, from what she could tell. Then again, these people practiced magic without the shred of Fade connection. Their very being was grounds for rethinking more than their mere appearance. For if magic did not have to be tied to the Fade, then why was theirs? Why were so many thousands all across Thedas doomed to solitude and borderline imprisonment, when these people did not share their burden? _Agh, this is all business for the Circle, not me..._

"General." The lead stopped and clasped a fist over his chest in salute; "We've come, as you ordered. How may we serve?"

"Standard anti-cavalry drill. I want a mounted charge, class two. Start setting up on the other end of the field, but wait for the engineers to arrive and give the ready." Cauthrien was still trying to understand, mostly how the idea had even been born to _simulate_ cavalry charges. She could not deny that, the way Belisarius was explaining it, the idea was more than sound, provided one had the resources; "I will signal you to unleash them."

"Understood." She watched them march off, not a one breaking into jog. She just might have, had she been in their shoes. Her counterpart had an aura of authority she'd rarely seen before. Loghain had it, though she hoped this General would not follow in his footsteps.

"When you say to 'simulate' a cavalry charge..."

"It's quite simple, actually." He didn't turn back to her, but instead watched the mages as they went about their preparations. Most of it seemed to her that they were palming the ground, little else; "Two hundred horsemen will be conjured at the end of the field. The engineers will be tasked with destroying said conjurations before they reach the spear-line. Failure to do so means halved rations."

"I see..." she nodded, though she wasn't quite sure if she did. What would his engineers bring to bear that could wipe out a cavalry charge before they crossed...what was the field, a hundred and fifty yards? "These engineers, they are not mages?"

"A great deal of people have some degree of magic within them, General." Belisarius explained, glancing at the assembled Legionaries; "In fact...pick out a soldier, any one of them. Have them come to us."

She did, though with some hesitation, not knowing just why or what her counterpart was planning. The soldier she'd beckoned over was one of the Nords, standing half a head taller than her, chainmail bulging from the muscles underneath. Or, the gambeson he wore. It might just be that she'd yet to see a Nord lacking in the physical.

"Generals." The man saluted. His accent was different than Belisarius', lending more credence to the sheer diversity of the Legion's makeup. And yet, his disciplined postured and salute was as all the others.

"Would you cut your upper arm, Legionary?" Cauthrien started at Belisarius' words, turning to stare at him; "Shallow cut, nothing deep. Just enough to draw a speck of blood."

Cauthrien was about to argue his orders, but barely had the chance before the Nord nodded, wasting barely a moment before drawing his dagger across his bared forearm, splitting skin and spilling droplets of blood in a thin, fine line.

"Very well." Belisarius nodded; "You may now heal it."

This time, she didn't look to the Imperial, but watched instead as the man before her placed his palm on the wound. A weak, soft glow, like the last light of the setting sun, shone from underneath. When he removed the hand, seconds later, all traces of the cut were gone.

"Thank you, soldier. You may return to your ranks." Belisarius waited for the man to nod, salute and wander back. His expression changed to one of very slight amusement when he looked at her, and Cauthrien realized her surprise had probably been showing; "As you can see, even the common soldier of the Legion possesses the skills to administer first aid. Hastatis that train to become healers are taught how to do this to others, a considerably harder skill. Magic flows within most children of Tamriel, General. But only those who dedicate themselves to it can truly be called mages. Engineers, as a rule, dedicate themselves far more to the laws of nature, and thus garner understanding of such."

"The laws of nature..." she echoed; "You have them sorted into laws?"

"You do not?" he seemed bemused at her answer; "The laws of nature allow us to know what no eye unaided by magic would ever see. Understanding of these laws is what allows you to know the world is a sphere, and how big it is, simply by calculating angles and...ah, speak of the Daedra, and a gate shall appear."

Confused, she turned and saw what he'd seen. Twenty men paired, each pair pushing what seemed like a miniature ballistae, or a large crossbow on a trolley. a third followed each pair, carrying on his back several quivers, stuffed with bolts. They rolled their devices to the start of the field, followed by the Centurion, Pullo, standing before Belisarius to deliver his salute.

"Thank you, Centurion. You may return to your men and prepare them to assume a Fulcum-line, double-ranked." He dismissed the Centurion and turned back to her, though Cauthrien would admit she was far more enraptured by these machines his engineers had rolled up. It was clear to see they would operate on a similar principle to the ballistae she knew of, but they seemed far too small and fragile to really pack much of a punch; "The Polybolos, General, is a lighter kind of ballistae. It can be rolled around by one man, though two are required to operate it. Of course, we also use a heavier variant, but I think here this will do."

"You believe ten of these ballistae can halt a two hundred strong cavalry charge?" and over such a short distance? She repressed the urge to snort at the notion. She might have an increasing respect for the Imperials, and what they could achieve, but she wouldn't trust double that amount of ballistae to do the job at this range; "I must confess to some skepticism."

"I would be disappointed would you not." Belisarius remarked; "Automatic weapons are a rare sight, after all. I've yet to see them here."

"Automatic?"

"Yes..." the air he blew from his nose gathered in clouds in the cold air; "An ingenious chain drive ensures a constant rate of fire, as long as ammunition remains. That's why they have that magazine atop the slide. As the operator turns the cranks, a pole turns and forces one bolt at a time into the slide, just in time for the string to come back, catch it and loose."

"What's its rate of fire?" she would admit the concept was a brilliant one, in theory. It was hard to imagine it working, but if it did, surely it could at least fire five bolts a minute. Maybe even seven? A veteran ballistae crew could draw the bowstring back, load and fire four bolts in one minute, in good conditions. This would have to top that to earn her approval, and significantly so.

"Eleven bolts per minute, provided the crew is capable." She nearly laughed at his statement. Eleven bolts a minute? That would mean more than one bolt every sixth second! She _would_ have laughed, had anyone else said this. Instead she held her tongue, biting down on her dismissal; "I can tell you find such preposterous. Very well..."

He turned his attention back to the field, as did she. The Legionaries had formed kneeling ranks in front of the engines, spears jutting forward while shields covered them front and upwards. An effective spear-wall, if nothing else, and one archers would find hard to break. The engineers, three per weapon where the third man carried quivers of bolts, had just finished loading their weapons. Belisarius nodded and turned towards the end of the field, where the Artisanii stood as well, ready.

A wave of his hand signaled the start.

Years later, Cauthrien would still be asking herself how Thedas had stagnated so, that no one had come up with such contraptions. The drill, or show, was a short one. The very second the signal was given, a wave of ghostly cavalry appeared from thin air at the end of the field, and in the very same second, the engineers started turning their cranks.

When the ethereal horsemen had put behind them ten yards or so, the first volley flew at them. _Six seconds_ , she noted dryly, watching as _more_ than ten horses vanished from existence. Those behind them thundered on, picking up speed. Then, not ten seconds later, the new front was cut to oblivion as well. Again and again, moving like machines the engineers turned their cranks and loaded bolts in the _magazine._ By the time half the field had been covered by the cavalry, barely a third was left.

When they were dozen meters from the line, the final ghost was skewered, and Cauthrien found she'd been holding back her breath. It was all the same, for she found as well she'd nothing she could say. _Six seconds per bolt...Six!_

What _could_ she even say to this display? Belisarius watched her for a reaction, and she wasn't blind to the smug grin behind his eyes. His mouth was the same, thin line, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. She steadied herself, blinking away what felt like something near tears. These weapons...she couldn't know, of course, how well they would fare against steel plate, but their rate of fire alone seemed it would cut to pieces anything but dedicated mass-charges. What would Orlesians do, when their horses were skewered underneath them, or they themselves plucked from the saddle by a hail of these bolts?

"An...impressive display, General." She finally relented, keeping her voice calm and collected; "I must admit to some concern still about how these would fare against armor. What if the target wears plate?"

"Steel plate, you mean?" she nodded; "These machines have an effective, penetrating range of a hundred yards. Hundred and fifty they'll dent or knock the armor back. It will still kill an unarmored man at two hundred yards, same with a horse...of course, if you're simply looking for penetration at range, the scorpions can skewer a knight at three hundred yards. His horse too, for that matter."

"...I see." Still, her mind was abuzz with possibilities. If they could mass produce such weapons, and position them at choke-points by the border, Orlais might think twice before sending her Chevaliers to their doorstep.

Belisarius might not fully understand, just how much easier he'd just made her task. She would need to speak with the Queen, and the guilds would have to start producing these weapons, as many as possible. If only Ferelden had horse faster and stronger than Orlais, they could even mount these on wagons. Mobility _and_ firepower, the only true way to beat back the heavy cavalry of Orlais.

"General." A man appeared as if from out of nowhere. His uniform was of the lighter class, simple chainmail with an extra layer at the shoulders. When he realized who she was, he quickly cleared his throat; " _Generals_. A party of riders approach the city from the north."

"Little's north except Amaranthine and Highever." Belisarius turned his back on the drills to pay the man his full attention. "We've had no word from Amaranthine of visitors...is the party led by a man and a woman, dressed as nobility?"

"We believe them to be so, yes."

"Aulus, then." The General nodded, and Cauthrien found herself a little more understanding now, of the strain it seemed to put on her Majesty that the man aside her knew things no one supposed to know had told him. The detaining and trial of Nathaniel Howe was not a matter for his Legion. So, why, and how had he even known? "General Cauthrien, it seems I must leave you."

"What for?"

"Talia Aulus is nobility of High Rock. The garrison of my Legion considered, it is proper that I greet her at the gates." He explained, and actually, she had to admit his explanation was sound. It had been hard to imagine the brash, young redhead as a noblewoman, especially given she was a mage, but enough things had changed recently that she'd found _it...somewhat_ less hard to believe. General Belisarius speaking of her with more deference than he seemed to show Queen Anora only cemented it; "I can find someone else to show you-"

"I would like to come with you, General." He seemed more surprised at being cut off than what she actually said; "I've not spoken with her since the battle. Nor offered my condolences for her loss. If Aedan Cousland rides with her, all the better."

"...Alistair Therin was killed in the battle, yes?" she only nodded, herself not having known the man...no, barely more than a boy, before he'd been snuffed out from the world. When Belisarius started walking, she simply followed. He slowed down a little when he seemed to notice her slight limp. Not quite yet, not quite there yet. Broken bones took time to fully heal, and in her vain pride she'd turned down the offer of his mages; "He was the last of the old lineage of royalty, wasn't he?"

"Yes." She wondered, again, how he knew. Spies? "At least, the last as far as we know."

"And now the land is ruled by the children of its Teyrns..." he almost seemed amused at the notion, and in truth it was not one a great many considered. But it was true nonetheless, that Ferelden would now be ruled by the Houses Cousland and Mac Tir, effectively. Neither with stronger claims to the throne but marriage, yet none had stepped forth with better, and she personally could find no objections to the pair; "Politics is a strange beast, I think."

"I was of the impression you cared little about it, one way or the other."

"On the contrary, General, I find its intricacy amusing, as long as I can be the outside observer." He chuckled to himself at that, as if he'd come up with a joke; "You cannot win a debate by sticking swords in your opponents...well, you _could_ , but...then you could never sit idle again."

"You can do a lot with a sword, but sit on it." She mused. Belisarius seemed surprised.

"Cestus." He muttered, something very close to approval in his voice; "Or, close to him at least. Who said that, here?"

"...I did?" she frowned, not entirely sure what he asked; "Just now, I believe."

"...keep those words in mind, General." He said; "They ring truer than you might think at first."

* * *

Denerim had changed, since last she was here.

In hindsight it was a given that would be the case. The Legion had been here for weeks already, near a month actually. There was no way they wouldn't have erected one of their standardized camps by now. Still, to see it with her own eyes was different.

To see those walls, straight and planned, with regular intervals between their towers, and the torch-light of the guards upon them, Talia felt like there was a strange nostalgia in the air. Strange indeed, considering she'd never seen an Imperial camp, nor fort in true scale and size. The ones in Skyrim had, at best, been where a patrol would stop for the night. Those in High Rock were too far from Evermor, and usually they only saw soldiers when they came around for parades or to drill beyond the walls. It was by father's permission and request, to increase morale and mood of the citizens, when they could see their soldiers drilling and preparing, always ready to protect them from whatever evil might crawl from the darkest of forests.

It was almost funny to think back on now, really. She'd been raised on stories of monsters in the woods, centaurs, minotaurs, lamias...creatures that could and would strip a man of his life, his flesh or his soul, all in order.

"So..." Aedan paused, leaning on his reins as he watched the garrison-camp below, at the foot of the hill. The river was between them and the camp itself, but though much of it was on its other side, a foothold seemed to extend across. It was just far enough to join with the road itself; "That's the Legion."

"Seems like it." She nodded, waiting for the rest of their party to crest the hill as well. Gilmore whistled at the sight.

"That's a lot of men." He noted; "How many did you say?"

"About five thousand." Chocking coughs were the most widespread response among the knights, though Aedan too seemed a little perturbed. Not that she could blame him, considering it was roughly what Teagan had managed to scrape together in total; "Each province in the empire usually has one to keep the peace. More, if the situation calls for it. This one was stationed in High Rock, so...there's something you need to be ready for, just in case."

"What'd that be?" Aedan asked. She hummed, not really sure how to broach it. It was good so many of them knew at least of Brelyna and J'zargo, if nothing else. She kinda wished they'd come with them, but J'zargo had been nowhere to be found, and Brelyna...oddly enough she hadn't wished to return to Denerim.

"The Legion usually recruits from the province it is stationed in. It ensures the soldiers have some determination to defend the people, beyond just what they're ordered to do." She explained; "Of course, High Rock shares a border with Skyrim and Hammerfell, and has Orsinium within its borders. That means Bretons, Nords, Redguards and Orcs."

"Names that mean little." Ser Jory muttered.

"Three first are much like you and I, ser." She pointed out; "But Orcs are much more akin to a Qunari. Larger and stronger than most humans can even dream of, green and usually with fangs."

"That sounds..." the knight paused; "...new?"

"Just keep an open mind." She urged, even as she gave her mare a light tap to get her moving again. Darkness was falling and she'd like to be within the walls and with a guaranteed room before it was too late; "They'll probably ignore you, but just in case...make sure not to piss them off. I'm really not keen on trying to explain how someone caved your armor in over a rude word..."

"You jest, surely?" Jory frowned; "...but, point taken. I suppose we shall just avoid the soldiers, or at least the nonhuman ones..."

"That's the spirit." she didn't bother bringing to mind that, in all due technicality, Bretons weren't entirely human either; "Now come on, I'm pretty sure there's gotta be a roast waiting for us somewhere..."

"Knowing my brother, it'll probably have been cooked to a second death..." Aedan chuckled; "...maybe it's not so bad we've got kitchen staff. Half the Fereldan nobility would probably poison itself by accident without them..."

"...damn that's sad." Talia scoffed, though she couldn't really hide away her grin; "Gotta admit, it's almost nice to know nobility's useless on both sides of the sea."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up..."

"Oh I intend to, my dearest husband." Still gave her the good kind of chills, being able to call him that. Especially when his reactions still didn't fail to be pretty funny. She knew he'd get used to the idea soon enough though, and was milking it for all it was worth. Her grin faded somewhat, when her eyes tracked to the gates and found a few people standing out from the throng; "...if it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure this'll be awkward."

"Awkward how?" she didn't even need to answer that, merely nod ahead where she recognized Ser Cauthrien's manlike posture easily enough, and an Imperial officer who could really only be Belisarius Cecium. Right, because she'd _really_ planned out how to handle him; "That's Ser Cauthrien. I'm not sure if I should be surprised she's with...isn't that the General, of the Legion?"

"Yep..." she sighed, mentally preparing herself. The army was an organization so alien to her, she really just didn't know how to act around them. The Centurion on the road had been easy, because that was just a quick greeting, but here...there were probably expectations of her.

Her horse came to a halt half a dozen meters from the pair of generals. She waited, watching both of them for a reaction to her arrival, but the closest thing to surprise seemed to be Cauthrien aiming it at her counterpart.

"Princess Aulus." General Belisarius offered her a nod she suspected was more deferent by far than his interactions with Queen Anora. Imperial military only really recognized _one_ ruler, and served as such. Technically, being nobility within the Empire she was entitled to _some_ deference, but hardly enough to warrant the general himself being in attendance. Although, there was some entertainment value in the way Cauthrien stilled at his addressing her.

"General Belisarius, I presume?" she knew it was him, of course, and he knew she knew he knew it; "It is an honor to be recognized by a general of the Empire."

"The honor, of this meeting and more, is all mine, M'lady." He smiled, and she found she really didn't know if it was a genuine one or not; "I'd heard word of your arrival to Denerim. Ser Cauthrien informed me you're headed for the palace?"

"We are."

"We encountered a patrol of your men headed north." Aedan noted, drawing the older man's attention. Generally not a wise move around _any_ generals in the Empire; "Why was Highever not informed of your intentions to reclaim Soldier's Peak?"

"Forgive me, M'lord Cousland." They'd met? In hindsight it wasn't really impossible. There'd been a week-long lull after the battle, and everyone had pretty much bunked in the palace for a while; "I was under the impression your Queen had sent word. The Legion acts with her approval, after all."

"...I see." Aedan stated.

She tried remembering what she'd learned about the proceedings of such situations, where the Legion was providing military relief to non-Imperial entities, but found it hard to recall examples. Luckily, she could redirect the conversation, and hide her brief lapse of memory; "Ser Cauthrien. You've recovered from your injuries?"

"Yes..." the older woman paused, looking to them both; "My condolences, for the losses you suffered in the battle. I'm honestly sorry that I could no nothing to prevent them."

"Thank you..." Aedan nodded, his voice low; "You did all that you could."

"But...we appreciate it." Talia nodded. It was hard, still, to think of Alistair and not grow cold. She could close her eyes and see the first time they met, the times he'd goofed off, the revelation in Redcliffe when they'd teased him...and she could still, in the early mornings when darkness obscured most things, feel his blood on her hands... "...all the same."

"You're here for Howe." It wasn't really a question, but then again of course Cauthrien would be aware. The surprise was simply that she spoke of it next to General Belisarius. Aedan nodded; "Very well then. Her Majesty and M'lord Cousland expect you at the palace."

"...not at Fort Drakon?" Aedan asked.

"The prisoner was not deemed to necessitate such measures." Cauthrien replied; "He has offered no resistance, nor attempted to escape...frankly he's so resigned it's unsettling."

"...I see." Her husband muttered. Talia frowned, not really sure if she should or could say anything. She'd never met this Nathaniel, and for all she was aware he could be innocent or deeply invested in his father's schemes. This, much as she found it annoying, was Aedan's thing to shoulder. She could but shoulder him in turn; "Let's be on our way then."

* * *

 **It's funny, looking back through history, just how ingenious we've been as a species when it comes to engineering machines and engines to better kill those guys across the field, or the river, or on that wall over there. The Polybolos is a pretty good example of this, and damn downright brilliant too. The Empire has two versions of it, based on the two Rome Total War games, where one was stocky, heavy and could send a bolt through an Ogre like a lightsaber through butter, and the other is light and more mobile.**

 **Basically the difference between a light machinegun, and an AA-machinegun pointed at some unlucky sod on the ground...**


	8. Old Ties

**Old Ties**

* * *

They were shown into the throne room, though both of them knew it well enough by now.

Talia stopped at the entrance, casting a glance at the high ceiling and side-galleries. It was strange to think the last time she'd been here, Denerim had been about to come under attack by the Darkspawn, and Alistair had still been alive.

She'd barely managed to realize his approach before Fergus was on her, or rather, around her. She wasn't given time for more than a surprised yelp as the man picked her up in a near-crushing embrace. Larger and bulkier than his little brother by birth probably, regaining his weight had turned her brother-in-law from a gangly, limping shadow into a bulky, limping shadow.

"Welcome, sister!" Anora, at his side, seemed as surprised at the outburst as Talia herself was, and covered her mouth with her hands to conceal what the Breton strongly suspected was a smile. Apparently it wasn't very Anora-like to smile, and the Queen was probably unused to it herself; "Welcome to the family, Talia. Properly, at last."

"Damn...-...it...-...F-fergus, you're... _can't breathe_!"

"Set her down, brother. You'll break her like that." Aedan chuckled, apparently finding the display more amusing than her. Then again, _he_ wasn't the one getting his ribs bent inwards. Fergus obliged though, allowing her to finally breathe air again. He smiled, though she felt like it wasn't reaching his eyes.

"If the Archdemon could not, I doubt I'd fare better." Fergus mused; "It is good to see you both. Much as I wish the circumstances were different..."

"The circumstances, however, are as they are." Anora said, stepping forward with a far more modest smile than the one Talia suspected she'd been trying to hide; "Welcome. And as Fergus said, it is good to see you both again."

"Likewise, your Majesty." Aedan bowed, Talia making to follow when Anora cleared her throat;

"Considering current company, I highly doubt such deference is required." She noted; "Our social standing being what they are, we...will very soon be family. I suppose some level of familiarity can be allowed for."

"So it's official?" Talia asked, looking between the Queen and Fergus. If so, would he become king or prince-consort?

"I suppose it's been for a while." Fergus hummed; "Recent events, however, have...somewhat inspired a cementation of our agreement."

"Fergus proposed." Anora sighed, clearly not possessing of the patience to deal with the older Cousland's heel-dragging; "It's strangely not all too dissimilar to the way you two got engaged, if I heard right?"

"Right..." it was strange how both brothers muttered the same word, at the same time. Their different tones gave the word an almost echo-like quality. Talia found herself sharing a strange look with the Queen, unsure of what it even meant.

Silence, the awkward and uncomfortable sort, reigned. Anora seemed caught between wry amusement and irritation. Fergus seemed exasperated and Aedan looked like he was just good old-fashioned goddamn tired. Personally she was just hungry and had a sore ass from almost a week in the saddle. The trip had been almost a goddamn day longer than they'd expected.

Quite frankly she was too tired to deal with anything but a hot meal, a bed and possibly sex, if Aedan wasn't simply going to drop dead the moment he touched the mattress. Hopefully, anything regarding Nathaniel Howe could wait till the morning.

Of course, Anora just had to be a ruin her plans. Because of course she was "...I suppose we should attend to the prisoner?"

Damn it.

"He's here in the palace?" Aedan's voice held a little more tightness to it; "Cauthrien said you didn't lock him in the dungeons. Why not?"

"...Aedan, it's..." Fergus' voice was somewhere Talia couldn't describe; "It's hard to explain...Besides, you've come a long way. I suggest we wait to the morrow before we commit to actions."

"...I suppose." Anora sighed; "Very well, the time _is_ rather late as is. I shall have the kitchens prepare you something to eat, if you'd like?"

* * *

Sleep was not exactly a luxury either were afforded much of that night, though by far Aedan seemed the worse for wear. She could tell he was awake most of the night, even as he clearly did what he could not to wake her. Not that it worked. She'd woken up at the first of his turns, and realized he was awake and frustrated by his far too measured breathing.

Superhuman senses could be a bitch like that, at times.

It was a toss-up between trying to calm him down, or trying to let him believe he hadn't robbed her of sleep. In the end the latter won out, simply because she knew she couldn't really do or say anything she hadn't already, and that he didn't need to also worry about disrupting _her_ sleep in addition to his own.

In the end though, she _was_ granted some sleep. Staying awake, even with Aedan's tossing and turning, was simply not something her body would agree to. Consciousness faded away, and the world went black and warm and comfortable, like she was sinking into hot broth.

Suddenly those sensations ceased, and instead she found herself in what looked like a study. A fireplace crackled in a wall of bricks, and bookcases and shelves decorated what parts of the walls weren't covered in tapestries and carpets, most of them looking like they were homemade with whatever was on hand. Everything considered, it was a far cry from the usual sceneries of horror and blood she was presented with.

It was cozy, really.

"You like it?"

Reality shivered with her surprise at the voice, though stabilizing again so quickly it might have been little but her imagination. She realized two chairs had appeared at the fireplace. Or, had they been there all along? She couldn't tell, only that one was occupied. A small table was between the chairs, frail-looking in comparison to the large, leather-bound and cushioned pieces of furniture.

An old woman relaxed in the comfortable-looking seat. At first, Talia did not recognize her for the finer clothes and clean appearance. Alma didn't regard her as much as she seemed simply aware of her. Then again, Talia was aware she was dreaming, which was usually a clue that she _wasn't_.

"It's...nice?" she tried, nearing the chairs. Did she dare sit? She still wasn't sure if this was a dream or something entirely else. And if it wasn't a dream, she didn't _want_ to know what the 'else' possibility could be. Already she was more than a little weary of the old crone and her apparent insistence on appearing to present herself as important and mystical at random times; "...is this a dream?"

"I could say no, and you'd still think it was." Alma hummed, gesturing for the empty chair. She didn't say another word until Talia, slowly and with eyes that never left the old woman, lowered herself into the seat. It _felt_ real enough, but then that might as well be her mind playing tricks, or catch-up. Alma hadn't exactly been on her mind lately, so why this now? "But does it matter, in the end?"

"I'd like to think it does..."

"You would, huh?" the old woman hummed. A book was in her lap, and she promptly tossed it at Talia. She caught it, if awkwardly, and stared at the cover. ' _A treatise on earth and the spells to bind it'_. It'd been so long since she'd seen a book with familiar words, she wondered for a moment what she was supposed to say; "You can read the cover, can't you? Then it's not a dream."

"What is it then?" she didn't discard the book, but still focused all her attention on Alma; "Where are we?"

"My house, in Oxford." Somehow, she'd not imagined Alma as a home-owner; "Close enough to the mills that autumn is a right pain, what with the constant grinding. You probably never thought of what I was doing in-between running around in Denerim."

"...honestly I kinda assumed you were homeless." It felt a little embarrassing to admit, though more than anything the confession seemed to amuse the old woman; "Your clothes didn't exactly scream of...well, owning a washing tub."

"...my robes have some sentimental value." Alma's eyes softened; "I've had them since I came to Thedas, so many years ago now that I've lost count. They were pristine once, you know? I've maintained them as well as I could."

"Ah..." What could she say to that? "And...how old are you?"

"Old." Alma chuckled, traces of nostalgia fading; " _Very_ old. But then, we Bretons never were satisfied with the lifespans of our peers. A mage can always find some way to extend her life, just depends on whether they do so at the cost of others."

"...did you...?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't tell you..." Talia frowned at that; "Mainly it's because I don't myself fully understand it. Not yet, at least...But, I'm guessing you've some questions?"

"...why this?" there were probably more eloquent ways of putting it than a two-word sentence, but Alma didn't seem to mind the vague question. She stared at the fireplace, as if she was watching for sparks to fly out.

"I'm finding it hard to get you alone these days." Somehow, that wasn't the answer she'd been expecting; "For reasons I'd...rather not get into, I'm a little averse at being in the proximity of your husband. This seemed more expedient, though I'm sorry in advance that it'll probably mean you wake up with a bit of a hangover."

"Right..."

Silence, surprisingly, reigned after that. Alma's lips were pursed, her face tight, like she wasn't sure how to broach a subject. It was a strange state to see the old bat in, considering all their previous encounters had given her the image of a ridiculously self-assured, confident and brash old nut, like the bastardized version of Wynne and Morrigan's mother.

"Tell me, have you ever wondered why I keep pestering you?" finally, Alma asked. Her voice was lower, more cautious and hesitant. For once, she seemed to address Talia as her equal, and not the subject of amusement; "I'm well aware you don't appreciate my presence, you know."

"Ah...well, yeah I suppose I've tried coming up with something." Truth be told, she'd happily forgotten about Alma for the past month. She'd enough on her plate that out of sight really also meant out of mind; "I don't suppose it's because I'm the only other Breton in Thedas and you just kinda sought out a fellow?"

"Hardly." Alma snorted; "I've been in Thedas far, far longer than Tamriel. I've more bonds to the people here than to those in High Rock, sorry to say..."

"Then why?"

"...when I was roughly your age, I too was forced through a ritual in Haven." Alma sighed, eyes averted; "I was alone, terrified and confused. I took the advice of a being I thought my guide, but which turned out somewhat more...malignant."

"Holy shit..."

"Like you, I ended up with a bond to Hakkon." There was _a lot_ wrong with that sentence, first of them being Hakkon never having so much as _mentioned_ or indicated anyone else being tied to him. He was pretty damn sour about it at the start too; "I can tell when you're close, or in enough danger that it makes Hakkon lose his shit. He's a gnarly old bastard, but we're all the company he's got. Dragons, like us, are pretty social creatures, and he's not all too keen on losing what friendly voices he's got floating around his head."

"So..." Gods, this made _no_ sense at all. And at the same time it explained _way_ too much about Alma's oddities; "...so, you're bonded too, then? Does that mean you can...you know?"

"I can't transform, no." Alma shook her head; "Once. Neither of us are entirely clear on why I can't now, but back then..." a nostalgic smile seemed to overtake her; "You should have seen me. Twice your size, and I had wings too...But, such magic never comes without a cost. It's much too exhausting, and your body's just not meant for it. Eventually, too much of Hakkon flows in, and you have to start medicating to stay sane."

"The blood."

"Yep." The old Breton nodded; "You're medicating properly, then? Good, should keep you from eating someone's face when you snap..."

"...I see."

"No you don't, not yet." There was only sympathy in the old woman's voice; "You will in time, but I'm well aware this is all a lot to process...Which is why I kinda feel like a cunt for adding more to the pile."

"More?" _More_? What more could she possibly throw onto the pile to top the fact that Hakkon was bonded to _her_ as well?

"You need training." That wasn't what she'd expected to hear, though Alma seemed disinterested in her confusion; "I witnessed your fight with the Archdemon. Well, most of it...Quite frankly your form was shit. You're lucky beyond the definition that you're alive, let alone managed to kill Urthemiel off."

"I...I was fighting a dragon, and she was _bigger_ than me." Damn it all, was _that_ her defense? Talia ground her teeth in frustration that, true as her words were, they hardly came out convincing. Alma didn't seem impressed either.

"You panicked, though considering your opponent I'm not holding that against you. Doesn't change that you need to be taught." The old Breton sighed and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes; "Seek me out in Oxford, when you're ready. I'll teach you what I know, or try to, at least...but try and do it before the year's out...I don't like the horizon."

"Meaning?" Talia leaned sideways in her chair towards the older woman.

"There's a storm coming, and not just to Thedas..." Alma muttered, her expression a frown; "I see it, when I close my eyes. It's like a dream, only I know it's more. Armies, tens and tens of thousands of men, crashing together in a tidal wave of steel and blood and fire. More banners and standards than the eye can count, and skies that bleed fire and demons...I've seen it all before, so many times now that it's as real as the Darkspawn..."

"...when?" Talia did not believe her, not entirely, at least. But she herself knew what it meant to have dreams that felt like they were more than just that. Alma's visions or dreams or whatever they were, sounded in part far too much like her own; "How?"

"I don't know yet, not fully." Seconds of hesitation felt like hours, before the old woman spoke again. Something like frustration flashed across her wrinkled face, but Talia was still unprepared for the hand grasping her shoulder; "Find me in Oxford. Before the year is out, _Talia_."

The room seemed to tremble, and the air grew hazy and thick.

" _Talia_?"

This time the voice wasn't Alma's. The old woman was no longer visible, instead the world becoming a haze, a mist where she wasn't blind and yet could see nothing. Her name was repeated, and she felt the hand on her again.

"...going to lie around all morning?" eyes opened, but instead of Alma, they revealed Aedan's face above her. Brown eyes bearing the red rings of insomnia greeted her, and the study seemed now suddenly so distant that it might as well have been a dream; "...bad dream again? You're pretty hard to wake, you know."

"Not...really." to both of his questions, actually. She found a smile for him, though he seemed not entirely convinced; "What time is it?"

"Ten in the morning." He sighed, leaning back to let her sit up against the end of their bed; "Anora already sent her maid, the elven one, to tell us the kitchens had prepared us breakfast. We're eating with Anora and Fergus."

"Right..." She could deal with that, and honestly, breakfast sounded pretty good right about now. Well, not as good as other activities they could undertake in their current states of undress, but she suspected the Queen wouldn't find it amusing. Also she found her desires somewhat dulled by the dream, or whatever it really was. She would ask Hakkon later, if the gnarly old reptile would actually respond to her pushing at all.

"...you really look like shit though, you know." She offered, mostly for the sake of it. Aedan frowned and glanced at the bedside mirror. He chuckled sardonically when he saw himself, which was pretty much what she'd expected; "I'd probably get some cold water, before we go. Fergus's gonna notice."

"Fergus wouldn't notice a Hurlock if it kicked the doors open and came in singing." He scoffed; "I'm not sure if you noticed, but he seems somewhat preoccupied with Anora."

"You look like all kinds of Hells..." Apparently Fergus wasn't blind to it after all. Breakfast was a far less joyous affair than one might have expected of a family breakfast. _Gods, I'm to be related to Anora..._

"...I didn't sleep too well." Aedan admitted after a moment's hesitation. It was hardly something one would miss, considering the red of his eyes and the slur to his movements, like he'd been drinking. Sleep deprivation was something they'd really only gone through once during the Blight, when they'd opted for not making camp near where the giant had shown itself.

"No, that's fairly evident..." Anora stated, putting her cup down on the table; "I suggest we put him to trial at midday. Meanwhile, there's bathing facilities prepared for you both, to get some of the road scrubbed and soaked off before we commence this. I'd wager you both could use it."

"That sounds... _really_ good." Gods, how long since she'd had a proper bath? Highever lacked the facilities beyond a wooden tub you could pour hot water in. She longed for something _more_. To be able to lounge in hot waters, stretch out and relax. Or a proper shower, to turn the crank and close her eyes as streams of hot droplets rained from above. And soap, honest to Dibella scented soap. Ferelden didn't have that at all, no matter where she'd looked; "Thank you, Anora."

"I'll see to the preparations meanwhile." Fergus offered, a small smile on his lips; "The two of you can take it easy, until the trial. Especially you, Talia."

"Fergus, she's six weeks not six _months_ in." Anora huffed, and Aedan seemed like he could have laughed at that. He didn't, but still cracked a smile and glanced at her abdomen.

"I'm not _that_ frail, damn it..." Talia pouted, though she had to admit she wasn't at all averse to being pampered like a spoiled little brat. She shoved the rest of her pastry down in a single mouthful. Entirely unladylike and uncultured, it nonetheless made the Queen snort with amusement and Aedan sigh with that same, adorable resignation she'd grown used to. They both knew he far from minded it; "But, speaking of the trial...how'll it be done?"

"A hearing, first of all." Anora said; "We're determining his willingness to cooperate before we even make his capture public."

"I thought he'd already agreed to cooperate?" Aedan asked; "Ser Cauthrien implied as much."

"Nathaniel..." Fergus sighed; "He's...not entirely right, I think. Emotionally that is. I personally think he doesn't quite believe the story, though to his credit I must admit Howe being able to conceal his magic for so long...it's begets questions, though I've no notion of whom to ask."

"I must admit I've hit the wall on that account as well." The Queen said; "I've inquired with the Chantry and what Templars survived the battle, which is not a great deal. No magic was ever sensed by any of their ranks from his Estate, nor from the Palace."

"How far away can Templars sense these things?" Talia asked. The ones they'd encountered in the Wilds hadn't been tracking them, originally, but the odds were low enough that some degree of deliberate chasing down must have occurred; "I've never really been able to tell."

"I'm afraid I don't know, though it would seem not as far away indeed as we'd like to think..." Anora sighed. Talia might have once disagreed on that one, stating that ideally Templars shouldn't sense anything at all... _once_. Different times, now, she supposed. She was different too, really; "That much harder to put forth a case, then, considering we've few witnesses."

"You can't just determine his guilt or innocence?" Talia wasn't sure if she was more surprised or pleased, actually. Ferelden had struck her as a very...matter of fact country. Who could argue with the monarch if they decided someone's guilt? The Empire would have balked at such injustice, but she'd never dared to hope similar regulations existed outside it.

"It would hardly be justice if I could simply state the guilt of those around me..." Anora gave her a strange look; "Though it is not equal for nobleman and peasant, the law must still hold as equal as it can when it comes to the innocence or guilt of the defendant...I thought your Empire was of similar opinion?"

"We are." She said; "It is. I just was...not entirely sure how it was done here, without educated lawyers and orators and...never mind. Right, so..." she turned to Aedan, in the process of trying to bite down on his breakfast without looking at it. A difficult task, it seemed, for he kept biting air instead; "...bath?"

"Yeah..." he seemed pleased with the idea. Hopefully the palace had baths large enough for them both to share. She missed such luxuries, and hoped by the gods that the Empire would somehow influence Ferelden enough to make them appear. Maybe public thermae? That'd definitely be something to improve the lot of the commoners, many of whom might not really have access to hot baths at all, or had it as an absolute rarity; "Where's it at?"

"Southern wing, I'll have a servant show you the way."

* * *

The night was dark, and full of terrors.

Almost as if it was an instinct, Thanryn knew it to be true this night, far more so than any other. He'd already sent home those of the serfs he suspected might try and throw away their lives in futile struggle, the rest remaining under the same guard in their chambers. The Maryon Household did not have a great amount of guards it could call upon without rousing suspicion from outside parties. Still, what guards they had now patrolled the perimeters of the grounds, as well as all its doorways and windows. Every corridor had at least one man-at-arms, each within another's sight or earshot.

Wordlessly, for who would listen to him anyway, he snuffed out the oil lamps as he went. Each threw the hallways behind him into increasing darkness, except for the posts manned by guards. Manservants more so than true soldiers, really, but their loyalty was one that could not be bought.

As he passed one of the windows, a glance to the gardens outside revealed it to be bathed in moonshine. Secunda behind Masser, they still cast a glow strong enough that he could see the shadows on the branches of the larger trees. Mostly, bats, but he noticed also the shape of a bird, perched on one of the thicker outgrowths closer to the trunk itself. An owl, maybe? The shape would fit, though it was an unusual bird in these parts.

Was it a sign, maybe? Azura was not the sole Daedra, and many worked through intermediaries. Was one mocking him, Mephala maybe, or Vermina? His sleep had been unruly at best, recently, that much was true. He was unused to a bed without Delisi to share it with, and the sounds of running feet no longer echoed down the hallways of his home.

By Azura, it was so empty now.

When he closed the door to his study, sealing himself within the old and familiar walls and bookshelves, Thanryn felt like something was off. To the immediate glance, nothing was revealed that was not as it should be. His pens were where they should be, undisturbed. Nothing was missing from his drawers and not a book was out of place. The window was open, to let in some air to freshen up his stuffed study, but too small for anything larger than a porcupine to enter, and nothing had been thrown inside, nor was the glass broken.

Still, something was off. A sense of unease gripped him, tighter than before, and he pressed the window-frame back into place, sealing himself off from the world beyond his home. Now, the sounds of the night barely registered through the house's walls and he could feel the heat returning from the fireplace. Yet, somehow even this was not enough to chase out the cold dread settling in his bones.

He hadn't lit the fireplace, and his door had been locked until now. No servant had entered, nor a guard, and no one had left. The conclusion he reached did little to calm him down, though he forced a stoic face and scanned his study again.

As if a spectre, or an entity from beyond an Oblivion Gate, a figure stepped out of the shadows cast by the flickering, dancing fires. Thanryn felt his heart stop at the sight of the bone-white mask with red decorations, so much like a bird of prey he almost mistook it for a genuine Daedra.

But no, this was no Daedra, much as she likely wished to look the part. He stood, frozen on the spot with eyes locked on the approaching, silent figure. When she'd closed to mere meters from him, the masked woman stopped. Black robes and dulled, red plates on arms and chest, the intruder cut a figure to terrify.

"...you're here to kill me, aren't you?"

"I am." The assassin nodded, cocking her head slightly to the side. With the mask, it only further gave the impression of some Daedric bird, observing its prey with amusement; "...yet, you do not appear so terrified as to beg for mercy."

"Would it have mattered?"

Thanryn stepped backwards, finding his chair with old familiarity. So, this was how he would die? The comfort of his home _had_ always been where he wanted it to end, though always he'd wanted it to be surrounded by family. He'd have liked to see grandchildren, staring at him as their mother held them...mothers? Would Brelyna have come home, sought them out, had she been told? Maybe, maybe not.

"No." the woman spoke slowly; "...would you prefer to stand, or remain seated?"

"...what if I fought back?" He'd entertained the idea, however shortly. The heads of the other branches had themselves hardly lacked for magical aptitude, yet all were gone. He'd stand no chance on his own, and probably only make a mess of his lovely study; "Did no one else fight back?"

"I allowed no one else to realize I was there in time."

"Yet you speak with me...?" Thanryn sighed, closing his eyes. What a mess, truly. Why was this how things were going to end, with some unnamed assassin killing him off in someone else's quest for power? "I'm honored, truly..."

"I'm not doing this for your sake." The voice was clipped and tight; "I owe your oldest daughter a personal debt. It's the only reason the rest of your family yet lives."

"I see." So, it _was_ her, then? It had barely been the seed of a suspicion, before now, but Brelyna only truly affiliated with a few people, and only one matched the masked woman before him now; "I'd considered your involvement, given the loyalties of your House, and your husband. What becomes of my daughter? What becomes of Adurdal, and Delisi?"

"On your knees, or on your feet, Thanryn?" the voice of Rhea Redoran was cold, and hard. There was not a shred of malice to be found, only the tightness of the Emperor's servants. Thanryn's heart broke in his chest at the denial of information, tears pushing their way to his eyes; "Please don't resist. It will only be painful if you do."

"What. Have you done. With my family, _Rhea_?"

* * *

 **I'm not 100% satisfied with the way this chapter ended, but at the same time I'm not confident in my ability to properly convey genuine grief. On the other hand I'm quite satisfied with Alma's scene, much as I know a quite a few people don't much care for her.**


	9. The First Rains of the Storm

**The First Rains of the Storm**

* * *

"You will be leaving us, then?" The disappointment in Idoria's voice was not entirely insincere. Since saving the young Tevinter's life, she'd almost come to like her, in spite of the never-ending reverence. She'd though things were bad before, but now, with her display of powers, and Meridia coaxing her into something as...as _strange_ as song, she could barely walk a step without someone offering their cloak for her feet to tread on.

Envoy Pavus was not really that different, only she at least had a reason for the gratitude and reverence she showed. Idoria could, herself, testament to just how horrible the effects of the Taint were, and she hadn't even been as far gone as Tamara, when she had been healed.

"Yes, Herald." The dark-skinned woman bowed deeply, despite the many times the Centurion had asked her to cease such dramatics. The cold winds threw about her cloak, and her entourage stood as automatons in the wind, unmoving and steeled; "My time in the Anderfels could ever only be brief. I must return to Minrathous, and tell of what I have seen here."

"Of course." Mallin nodded, smiling a smile that wasn't entirely shallow. She didn't exactly mind the young woman, even though there was slavery in her lands where Tamrielans were held. Tamara seemed a sound character, and hopefully represented the willingness of her people to enter into formal talks of relations; "Will you take my words to your Archon?"

"I will, Herald." Tamara bowed again, not as deep this time; "Though I cannot guarantee the outcome, I will present it to him to the best of my abilities." She paused before looking to the Legate, standing besides Idoria; "I wish you all the best henceforth, Legate Kratorius."

"The Empire would enjoy Tevinter's friendship, and you ours." Her superior seemed to do his best not to show his aversion to the cold, though his mood always betrayed how little he cared for the damp and cool weather of early spring. He had changed, though, since her healing of Tamara Pavus. She wasn't sure why, or how exactly, but he treated her less like an underling and more like an equal now, rarely giving orders as much as requests or suggestions; "The Emperor has voiced his intentions to personally visit our allies in Thedas, and to provide what aid he can."

"It would be most appreciated." The Tevinter woman bowed again, then mounted her horse and trotted off, her entourage following behind as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, sheltering from the winds.

"Sir...I've a question." Idoria quietly spoke once the last of the Tevinter's had left the courtyard. His face turned towards her, nodding his permission; "If we secure an alliance of some sort with Tevinter, wouldn't that put us in conflict with these...Qunari?"

"It probably will, yes."

"But already we're worried Orlais might declare war, right?"

"We are, yes." He sighed; "Though with regards to Orlais it almost certainly only a matter of time anyway. The Qunari are far enough removed that we could be at war with them and only face them in battle should we march on their territories. Gods willing, Orlais keeps its armies south of the borders until later in spring, and General Tullus gets here with the rest of the Tenth."

"So...it will almost certainly be war, then?" she sighed; "Because of us."

"No, because of Orlais." He rebuked her; "We fight to cleanse the Blight from the world, though it be a somewhat lofty goal. Orlais already whispers of heresy and worse taking root here. If they invade it will be of their own volition, to stamp out what they see as a threat to their Chantry."

It was left unsaid, she realized, that she had been the one to make that threat apparent.

* * *

"Bring him in."

Talia had participated in trials before. Her status as second in line to the Seat of Evermor required her to have the experience, and to understand what went down and how. The rule of law would only be respected if those holding the reins led by example. That had always been her father's principle, and it was one where she could proudly declare herself in agreement.

Usually though, she would watch from the galleries. Never once, in fact, had she been at the forefront and center of attention, at least to what few spectators the trial had. General Belisarius sat in the left upper gallery, watching with what looked like amused interest, and a group of scribes filled up the opposite gallery, waiting with baited breath for the doors to open.

Anora sat the throne, though now there were two, Fergus in the other. Aedan had wondered aloud at the addition, to which his brother had simply shrugged and muttered something about it being 'about time'. Talia suspected it was the next step in the purely political union of those two, which really more and more didn't look quite so 'purely political' as time passed. It'd seemed Anora wasn't much of a match for the tall, dark and brooding attitude Fergus mixed up with the same sense of humor Aedan thankfully possessed. _Cousland men...really, it's not fair._

Speaking of, though, she glanced at Aedan. Her husband wiped at his forehead, though whether it was sweat or irritation he wanted gone, was hard to tell. She frowned herself, leaning back in her own, somewhat less ceremonial chair. Of course, only the regents had thrones. She just wished the rest of them had been afforded something that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the kitchens at the last moment.

The doors opened inwards, allowing to enter a pair of guards. Between them, walking with a posture surprisingly uncaring of his predicament, the young man could only be Nathaniel Howe. Talia noticed how Aedan seemed to stiffen in his seat, though she herself was afforded the relative, emotional distance to actually watch the defendant as he was taken before them. The Howe Scion - or was Rendon still technically recognized as the Head of House? - stopped before the stairs to the throne. Hands clasped in iron contrasted somewhat with the fact that he wasn't at all dressed as a prisoner, but much more looked freshly returned home from a sporting hunt.

"Nathaniel Howe, do you know the charges upon which you're brought before us today?" Anora's voice lacked anything even close to the same shades of warmth she'd shown since they came to Denerim. It was the voice of a ruler, cold as could be, but lacking the malice or spite Fergus would probably have laced his words with.

Nathaniel, however, simply nodded. Anora frowned at his silence, though it was Fergus who spoke next;

"Your father betrayed House Cousland and the Crown, consorted with demons and engaged with slavery and attempted murder." The boy - how old could he be, eighteen? - didn't speak, but also didn't seem shocked at the charges. Of course, he'd already heard them before, Talia noted; "Would you stand before this court, and repeat the claim that you were unaware of his treason and his activities as a Maleficarum?"

"...I was not even in Ferelden during the Blight." Nathaniel's voice was more akin to gravel than even Sten's, a feat on its own alright. It was bitter and slow, but also laced with a pain Talia found hard to ignore. A glance at Aedan betrayed his own reaction, and his eyes averted from a past friend; "I knew nothing. Would I have returned, if I'd known?"

"Maybe, maybe not..." Anora allowed the words to hang in the air before she spoke again; "The fact remains, however, that your father is an apostate, maleficar and a traitor. The question, now, is the extent of your knowledge of his plots. You claim, truthfully, that you knew nothing?"

"...would hanging me make you feel better?" Talia felt more than she merely saw it, Aedan slouching in his seat, hands tightly balled into fists atop his knees. The monotone, almost bored voice with which Nathaniel spoke, was not one that failed to disturb. Fergus had been right, when he'd said he sounded resigned; "Whether I'm guilty or not, there's no evidence anyway, and you need to send the message that treason is punished. Well, my father's gone, as is the rest of my family it seems. I'm the only Howe left, it seems if you need someone to hang, I'm right here."

Watching Anora blanch would have been funny, had the situation been different. As it was, Talia felt the same, mounting discomfort. The man before them, if he was even old enough be called such, might as well be dead already. He was right though, they lacked hard evidence to point at anything or anyone but his father. The Howes' serfs had been saved, ironically, by a letter written by the very man himself, detailing what to do with named dissenters who argued his plans.

Nathaniel, however, equally had nothing to prove his ignorance of his father's doings.

"...perhaps, though we're so fortunate to have another option, albeit one that might be somewhat...unorthodox." Talia and Aedan both turned to watch the Queen, though it seemed she barely noticed their shift in attention. What was she planning that could be unorthodox, if not torture? Inwardly she curled up a little at the notion, that Anora would even consider such. In the edge of her vision, at the same time, she realized the General was no longer in the gallery. Had he left? "No doubt you are aware of the newcomers from the east?"

"...I have heard of them, yes." Nathaniel admitted slowly; "And I saw their camp, beyond the walls."

Below the gallery, General Belisarius emerged from one of the doors connecting it to the main floor. He strode in, followed by a man in robes identifying him as a Battlemage. Talia couldn't tell if the man was a Nord or a Breton, though Imperial as well was an option. Nathaniel as well turned to watch the latest addition to the crowd, no doubt wondering what was going on. In all honesty though, so was she.

"Your Majesty." The man greeted Anora, stepping to the side to allow the mage in his wake to step forward instead; "I assume this means you agree to my proposition?"

"Much as it aches me to stoop to such measures." She nodded, and Talia felt a knot pulsating through her insides. What measures were they taking? She'd heard nothing of this. The Queen turned to the young Howe, his eyes locked on the robe-clad stranger before him; "Nathaniel Howe, General Belisarius has offered a solution to our situation. You will answer us, again, whether you knew of your father's plans or not, and his mage will know whether you speak the truth or not."

"So, already Fereldan law is subject to foreign spells and magic?" Nathaniel scoffed, spitting the last words like a curse. It rankled Talia to hear him speak of something as integral to her life as magic, but then again, when one considered the charges brought upon his dad, she could hardly fault him for pointing out what he no-doubt also saw as hypocrisy; "How convenient, that only you can tell the truth of things..."

"Still." The mage stopped before Nathaniel, placing a softly glowing hand upon his forehead. He winced at the contact, and Talia had to admit she didn't envy the encounter. Spells that read the minds of unwilling targets rarely were pleasant. It was a violation as real as were it physical, and one few unprepared could muster any defense towards; "Proceed to ask, Highness."

"Nathaniel Howe." Anora spoke his name again, slowly and with authority as if to remind him who was the true power in the room, and that it was not the man clad in steel; "Did you, have knowledge of your father's plans of treason, apostasy and murder?"

At first, he didn't speak a word. Amber-yellow eyes skipped across the assembly, pausing briefly at her Talia before they came to a rest on Aedan. She watched her husband in the edge of her vision, unwilling to turn her face from the accused. Aedan remained still, unmoving as if Nathaniel's eyes had frozen him physically to the spot, his gloves creaking with the strain as his hands gripped the edges of his armrests.

"No."

A single word, yet nothing followed from their side as the mage simply seized on it, bearing down on his victim like a bird of prey. Nathaniel groaned in his grasp, and Talia found herself almost wishing for his guilt. Otherwise, they were subjecting an innocent to what could amount to torture. Finally, the mage stood and turned, watching for his superior's nod of permission to speak before doing so;

"He speaks the truth."

For a long moment, longer by far than what felt even remotely comfortable, the room was cast in silence. Nathaniel remained where he was, blinking as if to dispel the effects of the magic he'd been under. Anora and Fergus exchanged glanced, though nothing was said, and the general merely nodded at his mage, dismissing the man without a word. Aedan, meanwhile, looked like was he going sick. His face had paled and he trembled, ever so slightly but enough that she could pick up on it, and he didn't react when she placed a hand on his.

"Very well." Anora finally spoke, shattering the silence with a voice that commanded respect without the volume it often took; "Nathaniel Howe, as of now you will no longer be held suspect for the crimes of your family...someone take off his cuffs, already."

"Thank you...your Highness." There was little gratitude in the youth's words, nor did Talia expect he'd feel any. A guard removed the cuffs from his wrists, leaving Nathaniel there to rub at the irritated skin.

"Your family's crimes against Crown and liege must still be addressed, however." She saw Aedan cringe, though he probably hoped she hadn't; "Though as it stands, as judges in this matter the Crown is both itself and Cousland, and as such partial in the matter. Aedan Cousland, being witness here, you represent your House more so than your brother. What do you, as the injured party, think should be done?"

Talia saw him stiffen, could sense him curling up inside at the sudden responsibility he now was to bear. Honestly it was unfair of Anora, to suddenly throw this at him, no mention having been made of it before now. Nathaniel's eyes were on him as well, ringed with darkness she couldn't tell was natural or the result of recent events.

"Though in retrospect, as a member by marriage of House Cousland, I would like your voice in this as well, Talia." Of course, Anora just couldn't leave it at that. Talia grimaced, not really wanting anything to do with this. But still, apparently she wasn't going to just get off with being a witness, she also had to be the jury. She looked to Aedan, and saw him conflicted in the face of judging an old, now proven innocent friend.

She decided to speak first.

"I've borne witness to many trials, hearings and courts, during my upbringing." Nathaniel now looked at her, probably surprised at her accent of all things. She knew it was similar enough to Orlesian that even Leliana had mistaken it for the real thing, so no doubt he would too; "The sins of the father should never taint the son, the Empire believes. Still, you are right in some punishment being necessary with regards to treason. The carnage I witnessed cannot go unavenged, though at the same time I cannot in good conscience lay the blame at the feet of an innocent..."

She'd really hoped someone would interrupt her or take over from here, because she didn't actually have a conclusion to reach. It sounded wise, because it was basically taken straight from a hearing she'd attended at fifteen, but the case had ended with trial of combat and the defendant dead, after insulting the court. It didn't really apply here.

But of course, no one interrupted her because...well, because she sounded a bit too much like she actually knew what she was doing. Damn it.

"...as well, at the time of Arl Howe's treason, I was not a member of the Cousland House, thus I was not intentionally part of the injured party." She should have felt worse for throwing the problem at Aedan, but damn it all, this was his mess too. At least he seemed to get the message, straightening in his chair; "I believe myself able to offer insight, but not judgement."

"I see." Anora muttered, looking from her to the youngest Cousland; "Do you have anything to say, Aedan?"

"...Rendon Howe was the one to betray my family, not Nathaniel." He started, clearly averting his eyes from his old friend; "Banish his father and have him wanted for treason...We've done this already. We've no knowledge of the whereabouts of the rest of the Howes, and...we should consider Nathaniel the heir, then."

"...You would name him _Arl_?" Anora's voice was laced with just a little disbelief; "Allow the Howes to retain their holdings, in spite of their crimes?"

"Rendon's, not Nathaniel's." Fergus interjected, and Talia saw Aedan nod to his brother; "I must admit, I am myself not entirely averse to the notion. If Nathaniel had no knowledge of his father's crimes, we cannot punish him for them. And besides, unless you'd plan on handing Amaranthine over to someone else or, Maker forbid, split it between neighbouring bannorns, removing his family from Vigil's Keep would leave a power vacuum we can ill afford."

"I'm not sure that would send the right message, Fergus." Anora countered; "If folk start reaching conclusions about just how safe their holdings are from the law, I'd rather not see the outcome."

"Anora, you're allowing the actions of his father to color your judgement of the son." Fergus said, causing a small flinch in the queen. It was hardly her fault, Talia thought, considering just how badly Anora's condition had been when they'd gotten a hold of her; "Besides, you yourself asked for impartial judgement...I'd honestly say my brother's doing a better job of it than I could."

"...Very well, then." Anora sighed. Talia fought the urge to make herself invisible when the Queen looked to them again; "So, you would both argue that allowing the Howe's to retain their position is the right course? What guarantees do we even have that this won't end with uprising? We don't know Nathaniel's character."

"I do." Aedan argued, a little more heat in his voice. Talia noticed Nathaniel too seemed to perk up at it, though it was confusion more than hope she saw in his face; "I've known Nathaniel since we both could walk, though I was a good two years older than him."

"...and you will vouch for his character?"

"I will."

"I see." Anora sighed and looked like she would rather be doing quite a few different things than being here, right now, arguing a sentence. She turned back towards the uncuffed defendant; "In that case, I will deliver the verdict as is. Nathaniel Howe, in light of Aedan Cousland's vouching for your character, and the establishment of personal innocence on your behalf in this matter, the Crown has decided that you should be cleared of any and all charges, and that the Arling of Amaranthine should fall under your jurisdiction, as it was your father's. May you prove worthier of the charge than he."

* * *

Hours later, Talia found herself outside the door to Nathaniel's assigned quarters.

The room was much like her own, a guest room, but had also served as the newly appointed Arl's cell while his innocence was determined. It was a little ironic, given how easily it had been to use magic to get what answers were needed. Still, it clearly hadn't been Anora's preferred method. Fergus had hinted at as much as well, letting it slip that the General had approached her while she and Aedan were off to the baths.

Now, her husband was within with Nathaniel, his old friend. Part of her kind of wanted to burst in and be part of the reunion, if nothing else then to satisfy her mounting curiosity. But she knew, realistically and because she knew Aedan this well now, that he needed this, to meet with Nathaniel again, alone.

At least, she wasn't alone in the corridor. Two-Sock kept her company the way only a Familiar could, tongue lolling as he watched the door alongside her. His ethereal visage pulsated softly, betraying the calm he was inducing to her. She ruffled the soft, cool fur behind his ears as a way of letting him know she appreciated it. That their minds were to a large degree intertwined was irrelevant, really. There was nothing wrong with a little physical display of affection.

She hadn't expected this outcome to the trial, honestly. Especially because what had taken place could barely be called such, with no lawyer or evidence for either side, barely any witnesses and everything in the end hinging on magic. Father would probably have blown an artery at the disregard for proper, judicial procedure...actually, that image alone was pretty uplifting, she couldn't lie.

But still, to now have Nathaniel declared the new Arl of Amaranthine, that meant he'd technically be a vassal of the Couslands, and thus sort of to her and Aedan as well. Definitely to her child. How would Eleanor react to this outcome, she wondered. She'd like to think the Teyrna would be supportive of the conclusion they'd reached, but...There was no getting around just how much Eleanor had lost, when Howe betrayed them. Fergus being as impartial as he was, quite honestly, was a testament to the man's integrity.

What kind of a man was Nathaniel, though? She'd only really Aedan's words to go by, and those had been of experiences from before the young Howe left for the Free Marches. What exactly he'd been doing up there, she wasn't entirely solid on yet, but apparently it wasn't entirely far removed from her stay in Winterhold, only he'd been sent there, whereas she'd...more or less fled there.

Aedan had vouched for him, though, so that had to count for something. He might be a great many things, her husband, and have a great many flaws, but he was no poor judge of character. He'd even stuck up with her, when Talia was pretty sure she'd been the worst slut in Thedas.

But he'd proven her wrong, in the end. Or, maybe he'd just made her realize how little she herself believed that. Either way, same effect and outcome. Pregnancy was fucking with her hormones, she hoped. It'd prove an important excuse, eventually.

"Talia?" the door opened, Aedan looking somewhat less like death than he had a few hours ago. That had to be a good sign; "Want to come in? I'd like to introduce you."

* * *

"A report, Majesty."

Titus turned from his map, a grand and spectacular depiction of the Empire, _his_ Empire, as it had once been. Morrowind, Hammerfell and Skyrim, High Rock and Valenwood. All the same, familiar shade of ruby red that signaled their allegiance to the rightful rulers of the continent. Elsweyr he could, to some degree, accept for now as retaining their independence, though their allegiance to the Elves still irked him deeply. Valenwood, he knew, would present a problem. The border was hilly, and both sides so heavily fortified he suspected it would take a second Numidium to ensure certain victory.

And then there was Elsweyr...

It was, perhaps, because the province had been lost to what anyone sane could tell was a lie. Only, the cats at the time had been anything but, desperate for a return of the moons to save their people. And the Thalmor, of course, had capitalized on that desperation, feeding the beastmen tall tales of secret magic and rituals that had brought back the moons.

True, their disappearance and reappearance was still unclear, but reports from Akavir indicated the natives there having a hand in it. Tevinter, some civilization much akin to the Empire, seemed to hold a large number of Ohmes-Raht as slaves, and the story supposedly went as mages from there having cast some spell that involved the moon.

Even if he couldn't truly fathom this mystery, at least it sowed further illegitimacy to the Thalmor's claims. Still, that was all in the future. His spymaster knelt before him, one hand outstretched with a scroll in hand. It bore no seal, much as he had expected.

"What does it say?" He was tired, and honestly it was no secret to him that the chief of his spy- and agent network read the incoming reports anyway. The man was too paranoid not to.

"Houses Telvanni, Indoril and Dres have been depleted of branch-members. Gleaming Steel moves on the House of Knives." The man paused, perhaps expectant of Titus' words or reaction. So, the preparations were thus far proceeding optimally? The Emperor allowed himself a smirk, at something going right for once. The House of Knives, that would be the Morag Tong, wouldn't it? He knew little of them, but trusted in his agents to at least thin out their leadership whilst the Dunmer were yet unaware. They only got _one_ chance at this; "Further, Red Iron has requested the relocation of two hostages to the Imperial City."

"Denied." Titus waved it off; "No hostages. Last time, we allowed for the survival of disloyal Houses, and see where that got us..." He paused, struck briefly by the oddity of Red Iron taking hostages at all; "...who did she take hostage?"

"The youngest daughter of Thanryn Maryon, as well as his wife." Maryon. Of course, he should have foreseen that branch might be problematic. It was already enough of a stretch that he'd decided to leave the older daughter untouched. Her adoption into House Redoran saved her life, whether she knew it or not; "She adds her reasoning being a debt of blood."

"...she can't take hostages." Titus sighed, knowing he would probably be having a less-than pleasant debriefing with the Redoran woman later; "...tell her to dispose of the mother. We can yet find someone to imprint on the daughter, or if need be wipe her mind. She can take the girl either here, or to High Rock."

"Understood."

"Good." He glanced at the map again; "Relay that order, and then send a message to General Tulius."

* * *

Castle Dour never really failed to earn its name.

Tulius has mulled over as much, more times than he could count, and no matter the amount of banners he plastered on the walls, no matter the furniture or decorations he filled it up with, the fortress never truly seemed to change its nature from just that, a fortress.

"No, leave it..." he sighed, gesturing for the men halt their efforts. In the end, he supposed it had been a fool's dream to have the Stormcloak banner mounted in the war room. Already there was barely a brick of wall to be seen for red and purple, but he'd wanted something to remember Ulfric's Rebellion by, and a banner had seemed just the right thing to go with; "Take it to storage, if anything we can send it south for the Emperor to decorate his hallway...though I'll be buggered if he'd actually have it on display."

"Yes Sir." The men saluted and left, leaving him for the moment alone in the chamber. A map of the province was still on the table, left untouched since the siege of Windhelm. In its own way, he supposed the map itself was also a reminder, of what had been. And what they had avoided. Occasionally, he'd randomly switched the flags for the different provinces, giving Ulfric hypothetical ownership. It'd left him to consider options for how to retake previously uncontested positions, and to defend from new directions.

"General Tulius." He glanced up at Legate Rikke's voice, watching and waiting for his next in command to halt before him and clasp a salute. As always, she was the very image of military professionalism, courteous and respectful, as still as an automaton when spoken to and as hard again to break. He was glad the death of her former brother-in-arms, Galmar, had not shaken her to the point of hindering her duties. He noticed the scroll in her hand before she spoke, a black-ribbon tying it shut. Black ribbons...those were directly from the White-Gold Tower, not even with the Council as middlemen; "A message from Cyrodiil."

"Let me see that..."

She handed him the scroll and stood back. Tulius snapped the ribbon and unfolded the parchment, eyes dancing from side to side as he poured through its contexts. His breathing came close to a halt, halfway through. When he was finished, a deep breath allowed him to unwaveringly move to the nearest brazier, and throw the message into the smoldering fires. Light beige turned brown and then black, the letters within quickly turning unreadable before simply merging with the rest of the blackening material.

"...General?" He should have considered Rikke's presence, he realized with a start. No doubt his actions had betrayed too much of the turmoil within him, and caused her to worry. But, truly, this was grounds for turmoil, and for exhilaration and anxiety.

"Send messengers to the Holds, Legate. Assemble the Legion and prepare for a march on Dunmeth pass." Rikke snapped off a last salute, turned on her heel and left, her steps precise and measured, yet he could still sense the trepidation they held. He felt it too.

A bigger map was hung on the wall, almost directly across the room from the entrance door. Tamriel was displayed thereon, and Tulius stopped for a moment to look at it. For safety's sake, no Legion's position was marked on it, but he knew well enough where they were. The Second Legion would by now have amassed and garrisoned itself east of Harlun's Watch, only a day's full march from the border, and his own would soon enough encroach on Dunmeth pass. The third Legion would then be ready to follow through after the Second, but his own forces would have no reinforcements.

Maybe, there was a reason the Emperor had yet to request the so-called Dragonborn's presence in Cyrodiil. It had seemed strange at first, that the appearance of a man with the lineage of Tiber Septim himself would not be cause for an immediate transfer to the Imperial City, but now...now it was starting to make a bit more sense.

Prince Octavian would have an extra five thousand men at his back, in addition to the forces he commanded.

Tulius would have a man who could blow apart armies with his voice. A man though he might be, the General could hardly look at this officer and not see the weapon that might tip the scales in open battle. In truth, the very prospect of fielding such power against the Emperor's enemies was enough to bring a rare smile to his face.

"It's about damn time we got started."


	10. Grievous Loss, Seeded Love

**Chapter was delayed due to Field Excursions with my University, and the fact that the days at said excursion were finished off with copious amounts of alcohol.**

* * *

 **Grieving Loss - Seeded Love**

* * *

"At least the weather's improved."

Talia made the remark, but was nonetheless pulling closer her cloak against the weather. The cold, biting frost of winter might be past them now, with warmer weather in store, but it was still hardly warm enough for casual outings. Hard frost had found itself replaced with fog and dampness, and the mornings still remained as cold as were it winter. The one benefit frost had brought with it, that muddy ground became like stone, was gone now as well.

Honestly the weather was just as shit as before.

"Fereldan springs are as malicious as our winters, really." Nathaniel muttered. He'd hardly been in the best of moods since the trial, but at least there seemed no ill will between him and Aedan, which really was a goddamn blessing. General Belisarius had actually approached them with talks of recruitment centers and fortified camps, and some sort of harbor-renewal project for Amaranthine. In the end, perhaps cautioned by the deadpan expressions Nathaniel levied at the man, he'd relented and simply promised to send them a note. She sniggered at the notion. _An Imperial General promises to write...like some half-grown kid_ ; "Better mounted than on foot, at least."

Circumstances taken into consideration, Anora had gifted him a horse, which he'd strangely enough wasted little time in dubbing 'Henry', much as the name didn't really fit. It did make her remember the need for naming her own mare, though, and somehow the name 'Pebbles' had simply come to mind. It'd strangely enough been rummaging around in the back of her skull ever since that dream...

Pebbles hadn't seemed to be too bothered by the spontaneous and not-at-all planned naming.

Still, how to even tell if that study with the fireplace and Alma had been a dream or not? She'd been able to read, though that might as well have simply been her mind telling her she could. Dreams were not exactly a science, much as the Thedasians were in a different situation on that account. _Gods know we dodged a cannonball there..._

"Talia?" Aedan rode up next to her and forced her mind from thoughts of old Bretons and fireplaces; "Ready to head home?"

 _Home_. It was a strange thing, that the place she had once entered as an unexpected guest was now just that, her home. Highever Castle, where the people she loved would be. And, as long as the Empire was cleaning up Darkspawn across the Bannorns, where she would be too.

"It's probably a first, you know?" she smiled at the thought; "Grey Wardens being left unemployed by common men-at-arms. Aren't we usually called on day and night to clean up after the Darkspawn?"

"Yeah." His smile was smaller, though no less relieved at being allowed a reprieve from the fighting.

But then, she knew he still was not entirely confident with the Empire, much as she had done what she could to reassure him. What _she_ knew, and how much she could explain, were two very different things indeed. Especially because she could not, on her own and with just words, explain just why and how she knew the Empire was a force for good. It had always been so, with her life being full of little things that showed just how beneficial the Empire was to the people under its rule.

Even the Redguards, a people that in her mind was less than deserving of inclusion into the Empire, had been treated on par with citizens of the Heartland. And their repayment, the total sum of their gratitude, had been to spit in the Emperor's face after the White-Gold Concordant. The man had fought and bled for his people, and the bastards had been too proud by a half to recognize how much he'd sacrificed to keep them all alive.

How many Legionaries had died, for a province that in the end simply seceded? For a people and a culture that cared more about old feuds and raiding their neighbors than they did for cultivation of civilization, agriculture and common human decency towards Bretons? How many farms and hamlets had been sacked and left in ruin by their horsemen, how many murdered and raped?

"Yeah." She sighed, disbanding the thoughts of where the Empire had been kinder than it should have. Of course, with the mere thought of the Empire came the thoughts of home, of Bretons like her. And so returned thoughts of Alma, and the dream; "...out of curiosity..."

"Mmm?"

"Is there a place called Oxford in Ferelden?"

"Oxford?" In the moment when all she received was a confused frown, Talia felt some relief that then, definitely, she'd just dreamt the whole thing. If Oxford was just a name she'd come up with on her own, then that creepy old Breton with some weird mystique-complex wasn't actually calling to her through dreams; "That's the grain distribution center, roughly a day's hard ride west, yeah."

Oh how it almost sounded like glass, the shattering of her hopes for normalcy.

"It's the largest town in Ferelden not acting seat of the ruling family." Nathaniel supplemented, because of course he would. He'd perked up even faster than Jowan had back then, and she wasn't sure if she liked the idea of two smart-asses sharing insider jokes over her head. Not that Aedan would do that, _naturally_ , but still...

" _Bugger_..." she cursed under her breath. Well, then she might as well just tear the scab off and deal with it. At this point she'd ample evidence that leaving things like this for later would only bite _one_ person in the ass, and usually it was hers; "Would it be a terrible detour if we went that way home?"

Aedan and Nathaniel shared a look, and she wasn't blind to what it meant. Mostly because she wasn't in disagreement with it at all, that she wasn't really making sense. _Why do you want to go to Oxford, Talia, I'll be they're thinking..._

"It'd add half a week, I'd say." Aedan shrugged; "I'm not sure if we've got the provisions for it."

"If the Blight didn't reach the area, there's a few inns along the way." Gilmore noted; "We used them occasionally when the Teyrn took us through the Bannorns instead of the Highway...But, I'm not sure I understand, M'lady, why would you wish to go the longer route? It's hardly scenic yet."

"...curiosity, mostly."

"Curiosity, eh?" Aedan hummed, clearly not believing her. She wasn't sure if that was more annoying or satisfying, that he wasn't so easily fooled. Then again it was _her_ attempt to get away with this, so annoyance was definitely the closer option. The look he gave her also pretty much hammered _that_ point home. He didn't believe her for a single damn second, but seemed more amused than anything else; "I don't suppose we'll be missed another day or two. Ser Gilmore, I'd like you to escort Nathaniel the rest of the way home to Amaranthine, then proceed to Highever."

"M'lord?" Poor Roland, Talia had to fight back the smile at her husband's antics. Sure, he didn't believe her for a second, but he hadn't called her bluff, and was sending the knights off with Nathaniel; "...would you be safe?"

"Oh, I'm sure I've adequate protection along."

Aedan patted the sword strapped to his saddle, but Talia caught his eyes. Right, yeah, it wasn't really like _she_ could actually be disarmed. Glaive or not, she doubted there was a wide selection of anything alive in Ferelden more capable of mass-slaughter than her.

Plus, it meant alone-time for them, which was something she'd missed since having the escort attached.

"Very well, M'lord." Clearly, Gilmore had picked up on at least a few of the hints, but seemed still reluctant to let them out of his sight. Damn if that loyalty wouldn't have been highly appreciated at _any_ other time but now. Nathaniel, of course, knew very little of what she could actually do, which was probably why he looked at the two like they'd decided to walk home.

"...are you sure?" the concern wasn't really that hard to pick up in his voice; "I mean...the roads are hardly safe yet, what with Darkspawn still roaming about."

"We'll be fine, Nathaniel." Aedan grinned, leaning out of his saddle to slap his old friend on the shoulder; "I think if we made it through the Blight like this, we'll be fine now too."

Clearly, the moody youth didn't much care for the notion, but nodded nonetheless. It was probably because he'd just realized or remembered that, oh yes, Aedan was actually a Grey Warden, and so was she. Not that Talia looked dangerous without her staff or fireballs, she knew that, but still.

"Good luck, then."

Half an hour later, it was just the two of them alone, seated atop their mounts as they watched the last signs of their escort, though now Nathaniel's, disappear over the hills. Neither had spoken while they watched, though now Talia felt like there were some things she wanted cleared, and better times to do so would be hard to come by.

If they were doing this, going to Oxford, she knew sooner or later Aedan would have to know why she wanted to go there. He might trust her with his life, and she in turn would trust him with hers, but he was not unable to see when she was keeping something concealed. At least usually he seemed content with letting her try and deal with it at her own pace and just be ready when she needed his help.

Which, really, she somehow always ended up doing. Needing his help, that was. But then, wasn't that the sum of a marriage anyway, to always have someone at your side who could and would help and support you, no questions asked? In hindsight, maybe not without the questions asked, because she of all people could admit she tended to do some pretty shady shit.

Like nearly going insane from a lack of human blood because she couldn't get over herself to tell others? That wasn't even the worst of it, though honestly the rest required too much context for her to even bother trying to go through mentally, and because Aedan had turned and was watching her now, eyes as keen as before. _Would life be easier with a fool for a husband?_

Maybe, heh, but then it probably wouldn't be nearly as exciting.

"If we're headed westwards...I think we should go by Alistair and Leliana." Aedan's words were almost as far from what she had expected as was possible, and presented a brilliant example to her earlier ponderings, almost as if he'd read her mind. Or, maybe she was overthinking this. Also possible.

There hadn't been a grave, of course. Alistair's body had been burned to ashes, and Leliana's had never been found. When the Legion had cleared away the last of the debris, and the funeral pyres had gone cold, Talia's hope of somehow finding her friend had cooled with them. Leliana had been one of the thousands of bodies burned to ashes with the modicum of respect the Chantry could offer its faithful, but with Alistair at least they'd seen him burn and been able to offer their respects and say farewell.

She could still see his eyes in her mind.

In idle moments when her mind turned treasonous, she could feel his blood flowing out between her fingers, coating and soaking through the torn skin of her gloves.

She'd been pouring her magic into his body even as his heart had stopped. She'd done _everything_ she could, and it hadn't been enough.

Of course it hadn't been enough.

It was never enough.

Was it a blessing, then, that she'd not had to see Leliana's mangled corpse? Her mind was generous in those first few weeks, presenting her image after image of what it probably looked like, broken, mutilated and brutalized. Had the Darkspawn cut off her head, her arms or her legs? Had she been crushed by a collapsing building or trampled by an Ogre? _Do Ogres eat people?_

More than once she'd forced herself to think of something - _anything_ \- else, for immediately afterwards would come the memories from Ostagar, and the Tower of Ishal. The Ogre that had killed Dela was easting corpses at the time they'd come across it.

There was no grave, not even a symbolic one. Still, the hillside that had come to be known as Victory Hill, because it was where the Archdemon was killed, had become a memorial site as well for those who had fallen in defense of the city and their country. Angled halfway between north and east so that it overlooked both the riverside where Urthemiel was slain and the sea from which ' _salvation'_ had come, it was a chapel without the insides of a Chantry.

A great many of those who had died had been mauled beyond recognition, but the names of those that had been recognized, Divines only knew by whom, were carved into granite slabs on the walls. The names were small enough that she'd have had to almost touch her nose to the stone to read them clearly in anything but full daylight, and not even half the walls were covered with names yet.

Returning families from Amaranthine would soon enough supply enough names to fill out the spaces, she knew.

When they entered, the hall was empty. Only a worker was there, chiseling another name into the stone, each careful tapping of metal in granite slow and measured. A quick glance at the newcomers, and then he returned to his work, no doubt used to by now the flows of people who came to remember.

At the far end of the hall, a small plaque was separated from the rest, if only by its deliberately centralized placement. Three names were chiseled into its dark surface, each apart enough from the rest that there could be no mixing them together.

 **[In the memory of those who led us, and died for us.]**

 **King Cailan Theirin, Slain at Ostagar**

 **General Loghain Mac Tir, Slain at Denerim**

 **Warden Alistair Theirin, Slain at Denerim**

They stood for a moment, in a silence Talia couldn't identify. Herself she was contemplative, trying to force away the memories of that final day. Instead inviting what she could remember of Alistair in the early days of the Blight. He'd been happier, back then, or at least better at hiding the steel within. Leliana's name wasn't on, of course, but she still liked to imagine them being together in death, at last.

Anything else was too fucking depressing for her to handle without breaking down.

"...so, they put Loghain above Alistair?" Aedan's voice was thick with the same grief he'd choked down then. There was little real resentment in his voice, only longing and regret, the same deep sadness that tore and her own heart.

"I..." she had to swallow down the lump at the top of her throat or it'd spill out. It didn't spare her eyes though, and she had to wipe away the droplets from her cheeks; "...I guess Anora just... gave them the names. They named...they named him Theirin, at least."

"He'd have hated that." Aedan's voice was at the weird midway between laughter and sobbing, which didn't do wonders for her own endurance. Talia leaned against his side and he wrapped an arm around her waist, as much for her support as for his own, she knew; "He never wanted that dumb name, did he, or the title?"

"Eamon sure as fuck wanted him to take it though." She sighed, not really angry at the Arl. The man had done what he'd thought best for Ferelden, though she'd rarely agreed; "...I don't see his name here though."

Aedan didn't answer that, probably because her statement really didn't have an answer. Teagan had raised a memorial to his brother in Redcliffe, but if his name was here it would be among the thousands of others.

"...You don't believe in the Maker, but..."

"Doesn't mean it's not true." She muttered, because really, who knew? Alistair might really be up there with Leliana now, at peace and happy at last; "I want to think it is, though. That he's up there, _they_ 're up there together."

"Mmm." He nodded, offering nothing else for a moment as they stood together.

"I thought she was insane, back then." Talia finally sighed; "I mean, who in their right minds would join us after what happened at Ostagar?"

"Leliana." Aedan noted, his breath heaving as his embrace on her waist tightened a little; " _Damn_ it, she shouldn't have come with us." She could feel him trembling as he spoke, and it did little for the thickening of her throat, already sore from grief; "She'd still be alive."

"She chose to come." She said quietly, because on the inside she would happily have gone back in time and turned the girl down. No matter how harsh her language would have had to be, it would have saved Leliana; "...you know she'd never have stopped bugging us otherwise."

"I wish I could go back, that _we_ could go back." The leather glove of his free hand creaked as he bit down on it, clenched in a fist wetted with the tears that spilled down his face; " _I'd have_...I'd have _stopped_ _her_. I'd stop her from coming with us."

* * *

The Imperial City

 _Seat of the Emperor_.

 _Heart_ of the Empire.

The city had many names, more than he himself knew of, probably. It was highly likely the elves had names for it that were less than flattering, though Titus cared little for their wounded pride and scoffs. As long as they remained wary of Imperial might and its armies, they could hate his people all they liked.

Instead, however, he saw a sprawling metropolis, _his_ metropolis.

Like everything else in the Empire, the Imperial City belonged to him, and was his responsibility. The happiness and safety of its citizens was his responsibility, though to his shame it was one he had failed once already. The city still bore scars from its brief occupation by the Thalmor, and very few of them were the sort of scars that could be covered with mortar or flushed away with water.

But the past was the past, and all one could do was to hope for its lessons, and forget the pains. He did well enough with the first part, but struggled with the second. He himself had not even been capable of leading the retaking of his city, an honor that had instead fallen to a man whose very name he had never even learned. It was but another scar on his honor, both as Emperor and man, and another display of his failures. Emperors were not allowed such failures, nor such weakness as he had shown at the start of the war.

The commoners, he sometimes envied. Their lives were simple, free of the mountains of dreads and worried that plagued his nights. None of them had to contend with the hundreds of ways the Empire could crumble, should he miscalculate or misjudge. For the simple farmer, life was all about securing the next meal for his family.

But to manage an Empire, and keep the hundreds of cities within it satisfied, safe and prosperous? To ensure that Imperial Law was equal for all, and stamp out any Noble with the senseless notion that, somehow, he was above it? Would any of them be able to keep the Bretons and the Redguards from open war, especially with the latter spitting on his efforts and open hands half the time?

Could anyone else, but himself, have kept them all alive, when he knew what the true goals of the Dominion was, beyond to curb the worship of Tiber Septim?

He would gladly have given away the throne to any man who could have turned the tide entirely and uprooted the Thalmor from their island, taken back Valenwood and reunited the Khajiit with the Empire. But, no one else could come even half as close as he had, he knew.

How many in the Nobility could he truly count on, he wondered. How many would dedicate themselves to the Empire's survival, if the heat was on once more? If Elven armies ravaged the lands, how many could he counted on to send him men and money to beat the Thalmor back, and not simply shore up their own homes? Pragmatism would see the Empire through this, but it was a very rare thing indeed to find with those in power.

The Nord nobility, the ones that had sided with the Empire, he could rely on to keep the peace in the north. Skyrim would need the stability now, in particular when Tulius was leading the Legion eastwards, and the holds to be held by their Jarls. He did not trust them entirely, but trusted their queen enough that he would leave it to her.

The Bretons were a safer bet, all things considered. Daggerfall's loyalty was firmly secured, though he knew they might change their minds should the Empire seem to lose the next war. Of all the king- and fiefdoms in High Rock, in the end he trusted none more so than the King of Bankorai, Omluard Aulus.

"Emperor." A guard announced. Once, they had been Blades, but now instead the Penitus Oculatus kept their vigil, disguised as they were like common soldiers; "They have arrived."

"Show them in, please." He sighed and put away the dark thoughts of what might lie ahead. The future was not one that would be changed one way or the other by him leaving its ponderings for a few, precious hours. The frown left his wrinkled face and became instead a smile, small enough to remind visitors of his authority, yet clear enough that he appeared a merrier, almost happy man.

The throne room resounded with the muffled creaking of well-oiled wheels. Titus Mede turned to regard his guests, maintaining his smile in the presence of the youngest of the Aulus children. Alai, was her name, he recalled. Omluard, his hands steering and driving her chair, pushed the girl forward until they reached courteous distance of his throne.

The Emperor allowed himself a moment to study the girl, a gesture he realized she was well aware of. Smaller than her older sister, though she was also younger by a few years, she looked far more like Queen Rhea than her, in particular with the raven-black hair and the fine, soft features of a child bordering on proper womanhood.

She was pretty, yes, but in a way less pronounced than the other women in her family. She did not have the strongly attractive features of her sister, nor the posture of her mother that signaled strength and determination, but...he could approve of this.

"Welcome, King Omluard." He greeted the man, one of the most loyal of his subjects, with open arms. He stopped as if he'd only now noticed the girl. Even though he himself had never asked the man to bring his child here, he'd known long before they'd arrived at the capital; "I see you are not alone?"

"Emperor, this is Alai, my youngest daughter." Was that a hint of nerves in the man's voice? Titus almost chuckled at the notion, that he could inspire such. The girl, Alai, couldn't rise to greet him for obvious reasons, but managed still to bow her head. Her breath came quickly, though was that exhilaration or anxiety? He couldn't tell, but it most likely was a bit of both, for a child to meet the Emperor in person. He had not heard she was confined to such a chair, however; "I had thought to show her the Capital, and your summons coincided with our planned visit."

Had his father, and his father's father inspired similar reactions?

"It is my pleasure to make your acquaintances, Princess Alai Aulus." He smiled at the girl, lowering himself slightly before her so that they were almost at equal heights; "How are you finding Cyrodiil so far?"

"It's...It's very scenic, Excellency." Scenic? Well, he supposed it could be called as such. The Heartlands had meadows and forests and springs and clear and clean as crystal, and the Imperial City was a marvel unrivaled around the known world; "I'm...It's my greatest honor to meet you as well, Excellency."

"I am glad you enjoy it, Princess." He said kindly, standing again; "Now, I hope you won't take too much offense, but...I might have a favor to ask of you, whilst your father and I bury ourselves in paperwork."

"A f-" the word ended up choked on a sharp inhale of air as if the girl had been hit with a spell. Titus frowned, surely he wasn't _that_ imposing, was he? Or, again, maybe it was simply the novelty of it all that had the girl so wound up; "I- I would be honored to assist you in anything, Excellency, but...I'm afraid my body is not capable of much any servant could not do better, or faster."

"Worry not, Princess." Ah, so that was it, then? Of course, he could see where she was coming from, with a family of such gifted and powerful individuals, being the child chained to a wheelchair was bound to induce some confidence-issues; "The favor I have in mind is not one I could entrust to any servant. In fact, your being here is a rather favorable stroke of luck."

Titus realized Omluard was glancing between them now, no doubt wondering what by the Eight he was planning.

"My son, Crown prince Octavian, is currently away from the Capital, and has left the care of his son, Valerian, to tutors with little notion of the minds of youth." And frankly, neither had he himself much knowledge of how to entertain a hormonal, seventeen years old prince. He'd never had the same peace or luxuries in his early life as his grandson, which also sometimes made for...misunderstandings; "As I understand it, the two of you are close enough of age that you might be better suited for the task?"

"I...I'd...I would...Your Excellency, I'm not..." the girl's protests were to the point of funny, if not for the fact that the expression on her father's face, usually always so stoic and measured, overdid her by far in shock and surprise. Come now, was the prospect of the prince's company really such a terrifying thing? "I...I wouldn't know what to do, or...or say, Your Excellency."

"Please, I'm not asking you to tutor or imprint on my grandson, Princess." Titus did his best to reassure her, though it seemed to do little for the girl's darkening complexion; "I would simply like for you to offer...a fresh mindset, so to speak. Valerian doesn't see a great amount of people I or his father don't personally verify, which means they're often times too focused on pleasing us to actually offer the boy... _new perspectives_ , but the ones _we_ espouse..."

The boy, like his father soon enough, would be Emperor one day. He desperately _needed_ the perspectives and viewpoints of those outside the circle of tutors and nobles of the Imperial City, and Titus wasn't about to let slip the chance Omluard had so unknowingly dropped into his lap. Alai was pretty, soft-spoken and seemed eager to please whilst still retaining some restraint, or if not then doubts as to her own abilities. She might be the right mind for Valerian to pick, or she might not.

It would still be a valuable experience for the prince, all the same.

And if it would further tie House Aulus to the Empire, then whether or not the girl could walk might end up irrelevant. Valerian was not the sort to judge by appearances, or he would not have done his best to shun so many noblemen's daughters till now. The youngest of the Aulus children lacked their graces and their finery and style, but maybe...maybe that would be what worked the best?

And certainly, Omluard who was currently chewing on his own beard - Titus had known the Breton king long enough now that he could tell - would never find a better match for his daughter than what might be borne from this.

"I...It would be my greatest honor then, Excellency, to offer myself in service."

Titus had a hard time holding back his grin, though by far it was brought forth by his subject's fretting. No doubt Omluard worried of the thousand ways his crippled daughter could offend, disappoint or outright fail in whatever tasks she would be given. _You worry too much, old friend. This will do her good, trust me._

* * *

 **And so, we introduce Alai Aulus Geotien(and indirectly the grandson of Titus Mede, Valerian Mede), Third Heir to the Evermor Estate and Princess of Bankorai. I wonder how many picked up on the clues throughout last book and this one that she was bound to a wheelchair. They were not exactly "out there", so in hindsight maybe that's not all that surprising. Remember what caused Talia's occasional shutdowns if faced with severe and sudden emotional turmoil?**

 **Anyway...**

 **I greatly enjoyed the reactions to Titus ordering the deaths of Brelyna's family last chapter.**

 **The fact that I can make people react emotionally to these things is what fuels me. Well, that and enough coffee that I should be able to see through space and time. The latter - the coffee that is - was what made me include the little part with the memorial. My mind went on an overdose and decided it wanted to be depressed as fuck.  
The Memorial was the result.**


	11. A Friend in the Woods

A Friend in the Woods

* * *

"General."

Fergus wasn't yet entirely sold on the man in front of him, much as he had by now come to terms with him and his army's presence in Ferelden. It was not a matter of trust or distrust in the man's integrity, nor that he was lying or telling half-truths when it came to the future plans and goals of his Legion.

"Lord Cousland."

General Belisarius looked up to regard him in the doorway, not exactly welcoming him into his office with the open arms any other official in Ferelden would with their soon-to-be king. Belisarius struck Fergus as a very pragmatic man, but pragmatic in the sense that he cared less for the ethics of his methods than he himself was comfortable with. Had the man's mission been different, and had he been sent to conquer Ferelden instead of relieving it, Fergus had little doubts he would have happily bombed Denerim from the skies, just as he instead did the Darkspawn.

The worst part was, he couldn't actually put a finger on _why_ he felt this way. Belisarius had done nothing to really validate suspicion, beyond showing just the barest minimum of deference to the Crown. Could that in itself be enough?

No, there was more to it, and now at least he knew he was not alone in his suspicions towards these newcomers. Talia might trust them, mostly because she _was_ one of them...but the Chantry was making noise, now. There had already been talks of disputes and arguments and brawls, and now the Revered Mother was weighing in, speaking of what the Divine might do once she learned of the presence of these unbelievers.

Honestly it was a right mess, and not one Fergus wanted to be in. On one hand, there was little doubt that these Imperials were cleaning the Darkspawn out of the countryside faster than the Grey Wardens could have done, even with their numbers before the Blight. Farmers could return to their homes sooner now, and soldiers could be spared to recover from their wounds and scars on the soul. And the technology and military prowess the General promised to share - already Anora had met with a group of picked men from the Legion, many of them supposed experts in agricultural matters - would surely benefit Ferelden greatly.

But on the other hand, it was no secret that Orlais wanted their territories back in Ferelden, and that Gaspard was just looking for an excuse. If he could prove to the Divine that heresy and the likes was rampant in Ferelden, the best case would be just the Orlesian army. What was worse, and frighteningly likely, was an Exalted March to purge Ferelden of corruption. What if news reached the Divine of these Orcs the Legion had brought? Creatures whose inhumanity made the Qunari seem almost like kin. _And yet, so slow they all were to purge us of Darkspawn. Who came to our help, but these Imperials?_

There was a debt there, and one he doubted could simply be paid in gold.

"I trust I am not interrupting?" he asked, noticing the bundles of scrolls seemingly already poured through by the General. Belisarius frowned, tossing away the one he'd just held, annoyance clear in his face; "Reports from your scouts?"

It was no secret that the man had spies and scouts spread across the Arling, and probably a lot of the countryside as well. It was the only reason he could be so well-informed, though neither Fergus nor Anora had felt the need to call him on it. As long as the Empire kept its word, it was a minor issue at best, that the man unbeholden to the crown was also the one with the most eyes and ears in the kingdom.

"From my Centurions, up in Amaranthine." Belisarius muttered, frustration seeping into his words just enough that Fergus picked up on it. Sensing more to come, he held his tongue and waited; "Four patrols have gone missing in the same area, twenty men a time. I've effectively lost a Century, and no explanation as to why."

That did make Fergus pause. He'd seen those men drill, and move and mock-fight. He had few illusions that an equal number of common men-at-arms could best them in open combat. Darkspawn, maybe? But, no, Amaranthine was untouched.

"Darkspawn didn't get that far up north, to my knowledge."

"No they did not." Belisarius sighed; "And aside from the stragglers that fled the battle here, my scouts haven't reported any signs of the taint in the woodlands."

"Bandits, then?"

"We should have found their bodies, then." The man paused and frowned at the scrolls before him as if they had insulted him; "And after the first patrol went missing, the next were more heavily armed as well...if bandits in the area were capable of killing my men to a man, you should have known about them before we even arrived."

"Maybe they deserted?" It was not meant as an insult, but the look in the General's eyes told Fergus just where he supposedly could stick such a proposal; "Maleficarum, then?"

"Maleficarum?"

"Apostates." He clarified; "Mages outside the Chantry who prey on the weak with their powers."

"Rogue mages, then?" Belisarius seemed to consider the notion. Had he not been told of these? On the other hand, Fergus could see why Anora would want to keep certain elements secret, if she viewed their reveal to be purely detrimental to their relations with the Empire; "...I suppose that could explain aspects of it. Our battlemages are spread thinly enough as it is, which makes countering other mages difficult...You have methods for dealing with such enemies, I trust?"

"Templars, usually." Fergus nodded; "Are you familiar with them?"

"I am, though I was of the impression they were to be used on the Darkspawn...Suppose that explains how you keep the mages in that Tower of yours." If there was a scathing remark in that sentence, Fergus couldn't tell. Imperials didn't lock up their mages, for the simple reason that they weren't threatened by demons, but so far there'd been little in the way of commentary on the Circle. In hindsight maybe that was a good thing, considering the Chantry already being somewhat miffed; "I would like to request the presence of however many Templars are usually dedicated to such matters, to accompany the patrols."

"That...might be somewhat hard to do, I'm afraid." Of course, it speak to reason that Belisarius wasn't aware of the Circle Massacre, given how little he seemed to have been told of its very workings; "We lost almost all of them during an incident at the Circle. We lost additional Templars again during the battle."

"Mage-killers, employed as common foot soldiers." Belisarius scoffed; "Yes, Bann Teagan revealed that much in our talks. But there were survivors, yes?"

"I'm afraid not enough." Fergus shook his head. Though, wait, hadn't the Knight-Commander sent a Templar to Denerim recently? Little explanation had been given beyond that the man should be away from the Tower for "a while". How long exactly that was, or why, neither the letter nor the young Templar Cullen himself had been able to reveal; "On second thought, however, there might be one available in Denerim as we speak."

"Most of Denerim's own Templars were slain in the street fighting." The Revered Mother had requested their names hold special places in the memorial, though Anora had rebuked her on the grounds that if she were to do so, she would also have to do the same with every noble and knight; "Cullen fought through the Blight and spent much of it accompanying the Grey Wardens."

Suddenly, there seemed to be a light of curiosity within the older man, and Fergus wondered if he'd revealed something he probably really shouldn't have.

"I'd like to meet him."

* * *

The forests of northern Ferelden had been spared the brunt of the Blight, by the Maker's Grace, and as a result could already now boast the first signs of life on prickly branches, where knobs and knots of green appeared in their thousands, wherever pine hadn't already conquered the land.

Birds had returned from the warmer north as well, and already their song filled the air, a resounding confirmation that no matter how vile and deep the Darkspawn corruption would sink its teeth, life always finds a way. It was, she believed, one of the most beautiful gifts the Maker had given his children, a reminder of Andraste herself and her song.

"I've got fucking _mud_ in my _gambeson_...how the _fuck_ did that even...Fucking Anders and his fucking swim-trips...and his fucking cats..."

Of course, Ser Ava lamented quietly, there was always room for different tunes in the forests. Boris complaining was just another note that could be added and, by some twisted soul, probably enjoyed. Contemplating whether stuffing her helmet with wool would alleviate the issue, she turned to her companion and partner through so many years.

"Calm down, Boris."

"We literally only just fucking brought him back to the Tower."

"And with the way you complain, should he be anywhere nearby, Anders will have heard us already and fled." The Knight-Commander's decision to pair them, years back, had seemed a strange practical joke. Boris was almost as starkly opposite to her personality as one could be, though underneath the complaints and the whining, he had a good heart; "At least comfort yourself that we're always hunting _Anders_ , and not outright Maleficarum."

"I could put _'em_ down, though." Boris argued, though with a rather lacking mirth; "Can't fucking harm _Anders_ though, 'cause he never tries shit once we catch him." Ava withheld her chuckle as her companion sighed; "...I hate that guy. And why's it always us to catch that bastard?"

Ah, the little joys of traveling. The Knight-Captain smiled to herself, inwardly finding some guilty amusement in her partner's frustrations. Boris was the kind of Templar who would have been happily stuck _inside_ the Tower for the rest of his life, whilst she on the other hand far preferred the outdoors.

"I'm sure Grand Enchanter Wynne means no offense, to send _us_ after Anders."

"No, but Irving did it too, and you'll be sure the next one'll carry on the same way." Boris groaned and she had trouble hiding her chuckles at his dismay, much as it probably spoke ill of her character; "Maker's Breath, what if I'm gonna be stuck hunting his ass for the rest of my life?"

"Then at least we'll get a lot of fresh air, and the exercise to go with it."

Was that a strange thing for a Templar, she wondered? Most of the Order was far more akin to Boris than her, and really, only a few of them were still alive in Ferelden, so there wasn't exactly a selection of agreeable souls to pick and choose from. At least Boris was only a Knight-Lieutenant, promoted after the massacre, so he couldn't really tell her no, that this really was a shitty occupation and a waste of time.

"You and your fresh air, Captain...not even the fuckin' birds wanna hang around." Boris groaned, though she could tell his steps suddenly slowed. She turned, realizing that he'd actually stopped entirely; "Hey...Knight-Captain?"

"What is it?"

"...didn't it suddenly get all kids of quiet?" Boris turned his head about, the only visible sign that he was scanning their surroundings. Ava too, suddenly, realized that he was right. Where bird song had filled the air before, now not a sound could be heard. It was not a natural quiet, and she could sense something in the air that shouldn't be there; "...like the really, really wrong kind of quiet?"

"There's blood in the air, and traces of magic." It was faint, so not close enough to track, but it'd gotten strong as they walked, which meant there was a good chance the road would take them there; "...I really hope it's not Anders."

"Can't be, bastard's harmless." Boris argued; "What's down that road? Feels like the magic's coming from there?"

"...I'm not entirely sure." She admitted. They were at least a day's walk from the nearest hamlet too, so wherever the scent stemmed from, it wasn't there. There was nothing on their map either, though anything younger than the Rebellion wouldn't be on it anyway; "Draw steel and say a prayer, just to be safe."

"...right." there was steel in his voice, a comforting thing to be sure. Boris might complain more than a human being should be able to, but he was no coward. The rasping of steel as he drew his sword was comforting equally so, her own mace making less noise as she hefted it; "With you, Ava."

The first sign that something really was wrong, beyond what a Templar could sense, came around the next bend in the road. The snapped shaft of a spear was lodged into the trunk of a twisting, almost curled tree. At first glance there was nothing else, but this close she could point out the direction of the source, as could Boris, if the irritated groan he let escape was any indication.

"Maker's Beard, densest part of the forest?" he wasn't wrong, but knowing which way to go meant she could look more closely at that direction. As if the Maker himself wanted her suspicions confirmed, a stray gust of wind blew through the forest, pushing aside leafs to reveal tracks in the wet soil, where something had been dragged into the woods. _Several_ somethings; "Tracks?"

"Multiple." She knelt by the closet set, shifting her heel so that she could rest it in the furrow; "They're sets of tracks, two feet dragging in each."

"Damn me to _H_...there's a lot of 'em too."

"Ten, easily, probably double that." Ava stood, her eyes catching onto something unnatural in the mud a few paces away. Boris had already seen it too, and picked up what was indeed a sword, though not one she'd seen before; "Is that a Fereldan sword?"

"Not a chance." Boris scoffed; "Blade's too wide, and there's basically no guard at all. Design's off too."

"Mercenaries, then?"

"Could be." He muttered, holding the sword up in what little light filtered in through the canopy; "Blade's high quality though, and maintained as well as my own. Nicks have been repaired too. I'd wager it's one of them Easterner's, which'd mean..."

"...one of their patrols was ambushed here." Ava nodded. Damn the fates, this could be worse than just a bandit attacks, if Maleficarum had attacked Imperial soldiers. No doubt there would be fall-out if their leader believed the Templars had allowed this to happen; "Looks like you'll get your wish, Boris. We're putting Anders on hold."

"Somehow that doesn't fill me with a lot of joy..." he sighed, but followed her closely nonetheless as they followed the tracks. Deeper and deeper into the forest, their path felt increasingly cramped as the trees closed in around them. Gnarly and twisted branches as thick as arms, more and more of them now with broken-off twigs and marks from where hands had grasped for a hold; "...Knight-Captain?"

"What?" she was not claustrophobic, nor superstitious, but there was a real sense of the trees watching them. If hills had eyes, could trees not too?

"I've this awful feeling we're being watched." So, she wasn't alone in the feeling then. Somehow that didn't fill her with confidence; "I'm already missing Anders, honestly."

"I know what you mean." She muttered, wishing she could pop open a visor to better see the woods around them. Was it her imagination, or were some of those branches colored red? She'd prefer not to consider just what had transpired.

"There's an opening ahe _...Sweet Maker preserve us_!" Boris' hissed curse was enough that she tore her eyes from their surroundings and directed them straight ahead. She saw the opening Boris had spotted, and hilltop ruin in its center, and...dozens of bodies. Twenty, if not even more, and par a few they were all as one dressed in the same armor, mangled and broken within twisting tree trunks. All of them, every tree, was arranged in a hapless row, like had a child simply placed dots in the ground. Had the woods themselves been cursed in such a way?

"Two or three merchants...rest are soldiers..." she dared not immediately step too close to the macabre displays, but kept her distance instead. It looked as if the men within had been curled up and around, like a child would with clay. The top of the trunks were a dark red, where blood had eventually burst from the bodies and started coloring their prisons; "We should have brought reinforcements."

"So many dead..." Boris whispered, his voice clipping. Ava put a hand on his shoulder, steadying her partner; "Knight-Captain...I am not entirely confident in our ability to put down whatever maleficar could kill so many at once."

"Steady now, Knight-Lieutenant." She kept her voice low and neutral behind her helmet, but was nonetheless resisting the urge to vomit. This...this was too akin to the massacres in the Tower.

"Whomever did this..." he swallowed audibly, hand tightening around his sword; "We _can't_ let them get away with this alive. By Andraste, we shall uproot this evil, then... _Blessed are the Peacekeepers, the Champions of the Just..._ "

For the Chantry taught that magic was to serve man, and never to rule over him. Those who turned their gifts on their fellows were Maleficarum, and were to be cast out. Ava's grip on her own mace tightened as well, as they closed in on the cursed trees. Up close, the wood almost seemed to pulsate, as if it were alive and would move at any moment.

"Boris, help me cleanse the area first."

Her hands were already clasped palm to palm, the strap of her mace dangling from her wrist, when he joined her. The power of their faith surged through their bones, their blood and their skin, spreading outwards from where they stood.

As if hit with poison, the cursed trees withered and snapped where they stood, crumbling to the ground to spill out their victims from rotting grasps. The very ground itself cracked and churned as well, as lines of roots upheaved from the ground. All as one, they seemed to head for the hilltop ruins.

"I see it." Boris nodded as she pointed; "Ideal lookout too. They'll know we're here now, if they didn't already."

"To the top, then." Ava rearmed herself, pointing the head of her mace at the slope that could take them to the top.

"With you, Captain." She acknowledged her partner with a nod, and set forth.

The first surprise, however, was not of the arcane variety. As they crested the first ridge towards the hill, a sickly, guttural laughter came from all around them. Ava felt the hairs standing on her neck, even before she saw them, and heard Boris curse and swear, and the rasp of his sword as it slid into position atop his shield.

" _Darkspawn_." He spat the word out, even as Hurlocks and Genlocks seemed to almost sprout from the ground itself. Confusion briefly mixed with righteous anger, for how could there be Darkspawn this far north, now that the Blight was gone? Did this mean the Maleficarum might be an Emissary instead? "Come then, _monsters_ , and see how well you fare!"

Boris met the closest Darkspawn in its charge, ramming its bulk with his own as he shouldered into the twisted creature. Steel met chitin, and chitin broke, letting the Knight-Lieutenant slide his blade into the crack, and out the monster's back. It didn't kill the beast, because of course it wouldn't, but Boris simply pummeled the creature's head with his handguard, striking swiftly and repeatedly until the Hurlock crumpled.

She joined the fray moments after he had, striking down at the closest creature with all of her might. The Hurlock before her laughed as it took the strikes of her mace, catching her weapon in its open hand. The laughter ceased when she drove the tip of her kiteshield into its open mouth, nearly splitting the skull in two.

"I am a Templar!" Boris called, laying into the Darkspawn with a vengeance; "I am a Servant of Andraste and the Maker!" his shield sang as it was slammed into a Genlock's head, before he kicked the creature away; "I shall not fall to you lowly creatures!"

Ava, for her part, had no need of shouting to focus her attention. She kept her eyes on her foes, three around her. Shield loose and mace tightly gripped, she stole the initiative and surged forward, jabbing with her mace instead of swinging it. It took her opponent by enough surprise that her hit connected with a satisfying crunch, and allowed her to sidestep the others with a dexterity Templar armor should not allow. But it did, for it was well-made, and surprised the Darkspawn enough to let her delivering crushing blow after blow to its skull, each breaking it in further and further until the creature slumped, and she could strike with her shield at the next.

Soon enough, the ground was blackened with tainted blood, and she and Boris remained the standing party. Adrenaline draining from her system again, Ava gasped and leaned against a rock to catch her breath.

"Are you wounded, Captain?" Boris approached her, whipping most of the black ichors off his sword before wreathing the blade in holy fire, purging the last bits of corruption. She did the same with her mace, waiting for the last traces of blackness to sizzle away before unhefting the weapon again.

"No, I believe I am unharmed." Truly, the armorers in Denerim were masters of their craft; "You?"

"Nothing serious, nothing infected." He knocked on his breastplate where a hit had left a dent in the thick steel; "I should have this hammered out though."

"Why...why were the Darkspawn here?"

"Damnest thing..." Boris huffed, stepping on the head of the nearest corpse. Its skull split open under his weight, black ichors and a diseased-looking mass of brain spilling out; "The Blight never got this far north. Darkspawn wouldn't just come out of the Deep Roads like this now, when the Archdemon's dead, would they?"

"I don't know, but we should inform the Grey Wardens, all the same." Damn it all, and they were days away from Denerim on foot; "Still, for now we should set the bodies ablaze and find our Maleficarum."

Moving the bodies into a pile included too much contact with them, far more so than either was willing to risk, and so instead each was set on fire with the purifying flames of their swords, though it was a more arduous process than she'd thought it to be.

"They've fled now, surely, but if the hilltop was their base of operations, we should investigate it, yes?" Boris argued, pointing for the hill. He wasn't wrong, either. Of course the maleficar would have fled, had they been in the ruins, but not with the time to pick up sticks. There would be evidence, or at least trails left behind.

Hopefully.

The ruins atop the hill were old, far older than she could immediate hazard a guess to. They seemed Tevinter, at closer inspection, but the style was not the same as Ostagar's architecture. Simpler, somehow. In their midst, in what seemed to have once been shrine or lookout of some sort, the remains of a tent camp was scattered across the floor. She could count easily half a dozen, with bizarre wagons in-between them.

"Dalish camp." She turned to Boris, surprised; "Dunno the name of it, but those wagons are Dalish. Their landships or somethin'... don't see anyone though."

"We should still investigate." A redundant command, really. Boris had already started off into what remained of the camp, and she followed him, one hand on the hilt of her mace. It looked, at first, like the Dalish had simply up and abandoned their camp; "Find anything?"

"... _yeah_." her partner sounded less than enthused, his voice hesitant and low; "...I've found the elves."

Rounding the last row of tents, she came upon her companion. Boris was stood with his back towards her, arms hanging loosely as he stared ahead. Before him, a long and dense row of earthen mounds was arranged. Graves. They were graves.

"Children too?" she asked quietly, coming to a stand next to him. Boris gave a nonverbal hum, seemingly unwilling to speak, or unable to; "Damn it...what should we do?"

" _Kill_... _me_..."

"Come again?" she turned to her companion, but he too had spun around. If he wasn't the speaker, then...Ava had seen her share of horrors, but ghouls and thralls would always number in the top of her list of atrocities.

" _Kill...kill me..."_

A lone elf, a woman, was bound to one of the far pillars. Her skin was a sickly pale, enough that her Dalish tattoos stood out against her complexion like were they black on white. Ava couldn't tell what state her body was in, for some kind of...growth, covered it. It was like a tree had overgrown the elf, covering her with thick, unnatural vines of green and red.

" _Kill me...Kill me...K-kill...kill me..."_

Unfocused eyes stared at the pair, neither Ava nor Boris moving an inch in the elf's gaze. She could hear he was praying, though. Her eyes moved from the elf's torso to her arms, where veins of green had sprouted from her flesh, thickening until they ran as verdant roots down her form to the ground, where after they simply joined the mass of roots and vines snaking and twisting their way out of the ruins, and down the hill.

" _Kill me...Kill...Kill...Kill them...Kill me...kill them..."_

"Maker's Mercy..." Boris whispered; "What...what the Hells..."

" _P-please kill...kill me...kill me...kill me...kill me..."_

"We've found the source of the cursed trees." Ava noted, taking a deep breath before moving closer to the bound woman; "Though something tells me it wasn't entirely voluntary..."

"The Darkspawn did this to her, then?"

"Maybe." It wouldn't be the most twisted magic she'd seen from those creatures yet; "...how do you greet someone in Dalish?"

" _Andaran_...Adamanran...something?" Boris swore under his breath; "How in the Hells would I know, the Knight-Commander's the one who deals with these people when they pass, I'm just inside...I'm not even sure she's aware of us, Ava."

" _Ga...ras...quenathra...shem..."_ Ava frowned, unfamiliar with the words. They were elfish, surely, but she'd no idea what they meant. Was it directed at them, or was the woman just deliriously rambling off random phrases? _"Kill me...Shem, kill me...kill me...killed...them, kill me..."_

"Pretty sure 'Shem's a slur for human." Boris offered; "So I'm guessing she's aware of us, then."

"Can you hear me?" Ava stood a meter in front of the mess of a woman, unsure of how to approach her. Things like these weren't covered in instructions, for sure. The woman's head ceased its lolling, for a moment, as if trying to settle on the Templar; "I am Knight-Captain Ava, of the Circle of Magi."

" _Kill me...please kill me..."_

"Damned fuckers..." Boris cursed, coming closer as well; "They made a real mess of 'er."

"She's in pain." In hindsight it wasn't something that needed to be said, it was clear for all to see; "What should we do?"

"Cut 'er down, I'd say." She looked at her partner; "From there, I mean. We're not leavin' her like this?"

"We still need to find Anders, before he gives us the slip." She hated having to point it out, but duty and empathy couldn't always coexist. What did that say about the Chantry, then, she wondered? "And we don't even know where the rest of her kin are."

"Dead, it'd seem."

"Other clans, then." Ava cursed; "Damn it, Boris, what do you _want_ me to do? _She_ wants me to kill her!"

"Vigil's Keep's not far from here. A day's walk, half if we leg it." Boris suggested; "We cut her down and wipe away whatever magic this is, then leave her to the seneschal at the keep and go back to the hunt?"

"...I agree."

* * *

 **Oh Hai Velana, thought you could get away with the Wardens not being at Vigil's Keep this time around, did you?**

 **Silly girl, you barely had a character in Awakening at all, Of Course I'm going to pounce on such untilted land ;)**

 **Also, I must admit that I'm almost proud that I accidentally made Titus even more disliked than Arl Howe, which really should have been a lot harder to pull off. Only part that annoys me is that people underestimate his intellect with regards to his...foreign policies, shall we say.**


	12. Nan

**So, I rewrote most of this chapter when I read through it, after releasing the first version. I was not happy with it, and honestly it just wasn't up to par regarding the quality of the writing. It was also substantially shorter than now, mainly because I had planned to do a whole chapter with the meeting, sort of like that one exposition episode in RWBY where it's just Qrow telling everything.**

 **I kinda went away from that, and came to this instead.**

 **If anyone feels like the character in this one comes as a surprise out of nowhere, I'd suggest going back to the Highever chapters of the first book. It gives some context.**

* * *

 **"Nan"**

* * *

Oxford was not exactly what she'd expected of a 'grain distribution center'.

The term wasn't one the Empire ever really used, and especially not for settlements. The closest comparisons would probably have been the Imperial Storehouses, compounds that received, treated, ground and shipped flour from the surrounding regions.

Oxford was nothing even remotely akin to something she could tie to farming, though it did seem to hold its fair share of industry. The town, almost as large as Highever, was divided on both sides of the river, with several bridges knitting it together. One, however, was very much different from the rest, in that it housed several massive waterwheels, each looking large enough that you could throw a horse into it and it'd fit. Unlike Denerim, the town itself hadn't been assaulted by the Darkspawn, but it was clear from the amount of pitched tents and makeshift hovels outside its stockades, that the surrounding countryside hadn't gotten off quite so scot-free.

"So, this is Oxford?" she hummed as they approached the gates at a slow trot; "Ever been here before?"

"Not really." Aedan shook his head. He'd been a little quiet since she'd...well, basically given him a resume of her dealings with 'Alma', up to the point that she'd injected that she wasn't actually sure if it was even her real name; "I've been to Denerim only a few times, and we always only took the Highway."

Somehow, he hadn't been particularly enthused at the notion that Alma had been in her dreams.

Within the walls of thick, stacked timber and stone, Oxford was all straight streets and straighter houses, at least along the main courseways. It spoke of the wealth the town enjoyed, probably from its waterborne industry. In the later morning hours, the smell of fresh bread and pastries, and the scents of spiced meats from the butchers, was enough to remind her of the paltry excuse for supper they'd received at the last inn.

"Any idea where this...Alma, lives?"

"Not in the slightest." She had to admit it was a problem. She'd halfway imagined Oxford would just be industry with a few hovels or something, not an actual, large town. In hindsight it should have been goddamn obvious, but score one for hindsight, then; "...she did complain about the noise of the mills, I think."

That was the problem with dreams. You really didn't have a bit of control over how much, if anything, you'd remember afterwards.

"We'll start there, then." He nodded, urging his mount on up the main street. She followed suit, inwardly wondering if he was mad at her for withholding these things for so long. He hadn't said anything like that, but at the same time...he'd been so goddamn _quiet_ since she told him of Alma. If he wasn't mad at her, what then?

"We should probably ask around if anyone knows of Orlesians here." Talia pulled 'Pebbles' into a halt as they came upon what had to be the main square of Oxford. It was large enough, for sure, and housed a pillory in its center, stocks and all. The town itself followed the river around its bend, which reflected in the way the main street took a turn to the right after the square. On the other side, whitewashed and looking like particular care had gone into its construction and the decoration of its exterior, the town hall rose in two stories to overlook the square; "Alma's a Breton, and for reasons beyond me, the accent's close enough to fool most."

"True." He smiled a little at her irritation; "I took you for an Orlesian first time we met."

"Nearly took _me_ too, far as I recall." She sighed, split between remembering that night fondly or with horror, depending on which part it was; "Right, who'd be the best to ask?"

"Town's not too big." Aedan noted; "If she's a prominent citizen in any way, the Bailiff's bound to have a record on her."

"Bailiff?" that was a new word right there.

"Like a chief of the guard, but he's administrative more than anything else. There's usually one even in the smaller towns." He explained, dismounting.

Talia waited for him to come and offer her his help to get off Pebbles, but instead he simply pulled on with his horse, leaving her to do it herself. Damn it, he probably _was_ miffed with her. Pouting, she dismounted as well and steered Pebbles along across the unpaved square, inwardly thankful that at least it hadn't rained enough to turn the ground into mud. The mare, of course, was probably oblivious to her frustrations, preferring instead to push at her arm for treats.

Aedan was waiting for her at the town center, having already tied his steed to the posts there. He did the same for hers, though with that same, uneasy quiet to his actions that had her a little on edge. Okay, so she'd held onto this for way longer than she probably should have, but still, he wasn't being fair for giving her the cold shoulder like this. _Ass_.

As it turned out, the actual building housing the administrative center of Oxford wasn't just the town center. It also housed an armory, an apothecary and an actual, genuine tailor. Mad at her or not, Aedan _was_ going to treat her to a new pair of gloves, if they had any her size. _I really need to get some money actually viable in Ferelden...damn it._

"Enter." Aedan had already knocked on the Bailiff's door by the time she made it up the stairs. Damn it all, was he going to be _this_ obstinate the rest of the day? She bit back a remark when he glanced back, as if suddenly remembering she was even _there_. Was he really that pissed with her, or...was it something else?

Actually, that wasn't as halfway insane as it could have sounded. Maybe there was something else to all of this bothering him, or distracting him so much it took away his mind? Talia paused, because that wasn't really impossible and maybe she'd overthought things? Perhaps?

The Bailiff was an older man, with enough wrinkles despite the color of his beard that the stress of his job was made plain. Oxford wasn't a huge town, but probably large enough that one man might see himself into an early grave of strain from it all the same. He turned by his desk and put down a quill when they entered, the surprise poorly hidden on his features.

"A Knight?" he frowned, probably at the Cousland coat of arms on Aedan's shield. Of course, she wasn't in any sort of armor but casual travel clothes, which meant he probably took her for a follower; "You're from Highever, are you not, then? Welcome, I suppose."

"Aedan and Talia Cousland, actually." She felt a tiny surge, mostly pride and a bit of glee at his announcing their names with the same surname to them. It was a small thing, really, and she should probably have been over the novelty of it by now, but still. Also it was amusing to watch the Bailiff stare in brief disbelief before standing from his chair, offering them both a bow. Aedan seemed to share in her impression, a tiny smile creasing his lips; "You are the Bailiff of Oxford, I presume?"

"I am, my Lord." The elderly man nodded, standing straight. His state of dress could have made anyone believe him some swaddled scribe, but the mace on his hip looked like it had dents and notches to dispel thát particular notion; "Angus, Bailiff by the grace of the Crown... How may I be of assistance?"

"We're looking for someone who's supposed to have residence here in Oxford." Aedan said, turning just enough to face her that she understood the hint; "My wife knows her... better than I, though."

"M'lady?" the Bailiff watched her expectantly, no doubt eager to serve such esteemed guests. Were they esteemed? Technically neither were nobility, being Wardens and all, but names were names, she supposed.

"We're searching for an elderly woman, possibly Orlesian, who goes by the name Alma. She should live somewhere close to the mills, or at least have her daily business there." She'd half a mind to include wealth, but then the study she'd been shown could be pure conjuration, and not actually real; "We were hoping you might at least have some record of her, even if the name is not her real one, then possibly of Orlesians in your town?"

"Alma...Alma..." Angus scratched his chin in thought before shaking his head; "I'm afraid it's not a name I'm familiar with, M'lady. But, if she stands out as you describe, my scribes will surely have taken record of her, at some point."

They followed as he beckoned them into the adjacent room, a well-lit chamber with walls stacked with shelves and a large window with stained glass to let in the light. A desk stood against the wall with the window, with a finely dressed man seated in the chair, nose so deep in his writings that the tip was colored black with ink.

"Vashek, I need you to go into the registers and find anything on Orlesians living within the walls." The Bailiff ordered the apparent scribe before turning back to them, and in particular her; "Has she lived in Oxford long or a more recent denizen?"

"I've no idea, sorry." For all she knew Alma had either lived in Oxford since the day she arrived in Ferelden or literally just settled in the night she'd made contact in the dream. Damn that old hag and whatever amusement she got out of playing mysterious. Honestly it reminded her way too much of Morrigan's mother, though she couldn't at present recall her name; "But...at least long enough to have permanent residency?"

"Most do, or they leave again." The Bailiff muttered; "Oxford has little room for vagrants, what with the already clustered refugees from the afflicted Bannorns."

"You weren't hit by the Darkspawn?" Aedan asked, even as they watched the scribe scurry about for scrolls and papers. Considering the library he was diving through, quite the task; "Oxford's not exactly that far out of the Horde's way to Denerim."

"We could see the Horde, alright, across the river." The memory seemed to send shivers down the man's spine; "We evacuated everyone and everything to this side and rigged the bridges to burn if the Darkspawn should break through the western walls. Damnest thing though, we had maybe a stray creature or two scratching at the walls, but that's it. The Maker's hand was over us, for sure, the walls would have never withstood the size of that host of monsters."

"They didn't even try to attack the city?" she had to admit, it sounded weird. Darkspawn weren't exactly known for leaving much behind but ashes, but they'd simply bypassed Oxford like that? The Bailiff was right, it _was_ the damnest thing.

"Nothing." The Bailiff shrugged; "Honestly the evacuations and then having to make the bridges passable again was more trouble than the Darkspawn. Well, that and the sickness they left in the ground, but we've taken our precautions there as well."

"You mean the taint?" Aedan asked, surprisingly earning a shake of the Bailiff's head; "What then?"

"We're not exactly sure. Some kind of disease in the water that caused folks to lose their bowels, grow boils and break out in a fever, but we've competent apothecaries, and the town's Chantry hospitalized the sick until we got it under control." He was clearly proud of the people under his jurisdiction, and rightly so, really. To effectively combat a new disease like that was an impressive feat. His expression became somewhat somber, suddenly; "Actually, now that I think about it I think one of the apothecaries is Orlesian."

"Old woman too?" Talia wasn't sure if Aedan pressing like he did was purely out of curiosity, or something else. She'd have to ask him later, but it felt like there was more to it.

"Vashek, find the apothecary's registers." Angus turned to the scribe, already shelfing the scrolls he'd picked out to dive into the library yet again; "I'm sorry I can't recall, but suppose it's a place to start, might I ask why the interest? I assure you, anyone in Oxford committing a crime against the Couslands will see the law brought onto them, _in full_."

"It's nothing like that." Talia hurried to say, though what if the Bailiff wasn't wrong? Aedan _had_ been acting strangely since she'd told him of Alma, and he'd shifted on his feet just now, when the possibility of a crime was aired. Had her countryman...countrywoman, done something to his family? _Damn it all if half the Bretons in Ferelden are fucking with the Couslands...With my luck it's probably literally because Alma fucked Aedan's dad at some point...Oh sweet fucking Zenithar what if she's his real mom and Eleanor was cheated on?!_

At this point, she wasn't going to rule it out.

"Of course, of course..." the Bailiff raised his hands to placate her, probably thinking she'd been insulted. Were commoners usually this fidgety around nobility in Ferelden? This was the first time she'd really felt it; "Forgive my curiosity, Sers. It merely is not commonplace that the lords and ladies of Highever come so far south for someone under my jurisdiction."

"Nothing about this is commonplace, I'll give you that much." Because really, the man had no idea how right he was. Remaining vague was definitely the better option than mentioning they were seeking someone who wasn't actually Orlesian at all, and a mage too; "...do you really have a register on everyone in Oxford?"

"The citizens, yes." The Bailiff nodded, visibly relieved to change the subject as his scribe slaved away in the...well, it wasn't a library then, was it? Scriptorium, maybe? Archive? "King Maric, the Maker watch over his soul, instituted the system years ago to better govern his subjects. King Cailan, a man of the people as he was, sought to expand it to the rest of Ferelden, though the Blight cut his efforts short."

That meant Anora was probably actually the one who'd sought to expand the system, then. She and Aedan had both met the former king, and weren't too dissimilar in their opinions that well-meaning though he might have been, a good administrator he wasn't.

"Bailiff, the records on the apothecary."

The scribe, Vashek, interrupted them as he jogged in, a thin and worn, leather-bound book in hand. Angus accepted them with a nod and sent the scribe back to gather up the rest of the registers, then turned his attention back to them.

"Come, let us go the window for some proper lights." He was already ahead of them, and sat himself down at the desk, book in hand. The leather creaked softly as he flipped it open, going through the pages until he came upon the latest entries.

"What exactly is written in these registers?" Aedan asked, though perfectly capable of reading over the Bailiff's shoulder. Talia realized he was probably asking for her sake, and smiled to him out of sight of the Bailiff; "If I might ask?"

"Certainly, M'lord. The apothecary's register details its dealings with the town hall's administration, as well as any agreements with Oxford's Ealdormen Council, and its involvements in recent affairs, like combating the disease, for instance." He seemed only too happy to explain, likely thinking Aedan's interest genuine. Maybe it was, even; "Let's see...for example, the last entry was three weeks ago. Herbalist Johan, responsible for the gathering and purchase of herbs and medicinal plants used in medicines, petitioned for funds to construct a dedicated herbal garden within the city walls...Granted, by the Council I see..."

"Good initiative." Talia nodded. It was a concept used in High Rock too, and probably the rest of the Empire. The Heartlands had something of a monopoly on the more rare plants, however, in grand glasshouses south of the Imperial City. Father had often bemoaned the whole thing as needlessly expensive, though the steady and guaranteed supply was a definite boon to the Mage's Guild whilst it existed; "Anything on the Orlesian?"

"Far as I can tell...Ah, here." The Bailiff planted a finger at the top of a passage; "'Potioneer Leliana was granted a pouch of one hundred Silvers for invaluable aid rendered in neutralizing the dreaded plague left by the Darkspawn'...this was a week back, it seems."

"So not Alma, then." Talia had to bite down on her tongue not to react to the name. It was a coincidence, had to be, but still it was _too_ close to home. It was probably a very common name in Orlais, like...like some common name in Ferelden she couldn't think of at the moment.

There was no way the gods would have toyed with them like this, only to reveal Leliana was alive and well in Oxford. And the girl had never been a potioneer, she was sure of _that_ much.

"Or it's her real name?" Aedan muttered, his voice tight enough to betray he was struck too; "We've established we're pretty sure Alma's just a cover."

"True." She had to give him that, turning to the Bailiff. She wasn't sure which option she dreaded more; that Leliana was alive and had simply abandoned them, or that this was someone completely foreign to them with the same name, or that Alma had taken it to...to what, exactly, take the piss, catch her attention? "There's an apothecary 'round the corner, that the one?"

"It is." Bailiff Angus nodded; "Would you like to inspect it before we go over the rest?"

"I think that'd be a good idea, yes." Aedan nodded, his feet already pointing at the door. He was anxious, she could tell as much, but what about? If anything, _she_ should be the anxious one, since the old bat had told her not to bring Aedan. There was going to be fallout, definitely, but for her. Or, maybe Alma or Leliana or whatever she was called, would attack Aedan in self defense? "If we're not back within the hour, assume we found what we sought."

Neither spoke as they made it back down the stairs, her feet on the ground before the Bailiff's door had even closed, and Aedan close behind.

What if this was Leliana, her mind demanded to know. Had the friend they thought dead simply dropped it all and gone to live in Oxford and work in an apothecary? The grief might have done it, in hindsight, and knocked her world so much around that this had been the only option. But then, why not just the Chantry?

Or was this just a complete coincidence, and they would find some stranger, an Orlesian woman whose only connection with anything was her name?

Or was it Alma, for some reason taking on a name she might know would strike Talia in the heart? There was no telling with that old crone, only that if this _was_ her, Talia was going to hit her, if not worse. The name wouldn't be a coincidence if it was the old Breton, because by now it was damnably clear she knew more about Talia than she should.

Either way, if it _was_ Alma, then...then she _was_ going to answer. Fucking finally she would be tied to a goddamn chair and Talia would drag answers out of her until she'd no more questions left. Or the old bat swallowed her tongue.

The apothecary they'd seen upon arrival was more of an extension of the main building itself than anything independent, but required rounding the street and mounting a staircase all the same. A symbol that was strangely universal across the seas, the round-bottomed phial filled halfway with liquid was plastered on the sign above the door. Literacy wasn't required to know this was the place.

She was first to the door, Aedan having for some reason slowed his steps when approaching it. Pushing it open, she found the insides to be much as she had expected of a place that sold potions and no-doubt cared for the sick as well. The front shop was a desk taking up half the room, with weights and pouches atop it, and the walls behind and beside it stacked with similar and phials and flasks of various liquids.

Oh, and Alma.

Alma, dressed like some common, _normal_ woman who actually had to work for a living, with apron and everything, stood behind the desk with a smile frozen halfway in the making. It was the first time Talia had actually seen the old bat surprised, not to mention shocked, though she realized with a start that, strangely enough, the old Breton's attention wasn't on her.

" _...oh no."_

Alma's eyes widened in what looked a lot like genuine horror, the skin of her face paling so fast it looked like she might actually faint on the spot. A storm of emotions flashed across the wrinkled face, even as she stepped backwards from the desk, fast and far enough to hit the shelf behind her, sending flasks crashing to the floor.

" _._... _nan_?"

"...Nan?" Talia wasn't sure what was going on. Did Aedan know Alma? She had to turn around to believe it, seeing his eyes wide open and struck with disbelief. Looking back at the old woman, she saw the same thing there, only mixed with horror and uncertainty.

Why did she have a feeling she'd fucked up, somehow?

* * *

She hadn't been to Vigil's Keep before.

The keep itself might have once been imposing, when it was built so many centuries ago, but now it seemed to have fallen behind. Its battlements were outdated and in somewhat disrepair and everything about the compound seemed to embody a desire not to change or fix what wasn't broken.

"How is she?" she turned to wait for Boris to catch up, her companion carrying the unconscious elven woman on his back like one would a child, his hands under her legs. It slowed him down, of course, but by some miracle the plight of their...what was she, a prisoner? It seemed to have moved him to the point that he simply didn't care to complain.

"Breathing's shallow, but steady." He'd removed his great helm to let the woman rest against the back of his neck and his cape that was bundled up there for some measure of comfort. His bald head probably needed some sunlight anyway, with how pale he was; "Bandages are holding too, far as I can tell."

Cutting off the woman's arms halfway between the elbows and hands had been the only way to extract her from the growth. It hadn't been a procedure Ava ever wanted to repeat, and she thanked the Maker the elf had passed out in earnest from the pain as early on as she had.

"Halt!" they were challenged at the gates by guards, neither of whom seemed particularly pleased at their arrival, or the woman on Boris' back "Who goes there?"

"Knight-Captain Ava and Knight-Lieutenant Boris, of the Chantry." She removed her own helm to prove her identity, an in hindsight useless gesture as no one here would know her face; "We were hunting apostates in the Arling when we came upon this woman. She is in dire need of help, though we can provide her none further...Who is your Lord?"

"Arl Howe." The man who seemed in charge replied, half his face hidden away by the shade of his kettle helm.

"I thought him banished?"

"The new Arl is his son, Nathaniel Howe." The guard explained, shifting on his feet as he examined the unconscious elf from a safe distance; "Queen Anora reinstated him, on the vouching of Lord Aedan Cousland and his wife."

Aedan Cousland? Had the situation been different, she might have laughed at the ways the Wardens never ceased to interfere with her life.

"Will you tell him of our plight, and that we request his hospitality for an injured woman?"

"What happened to her?"

"Darkspawn." Ava knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment she saw the guard's face darken; "She will die for certain without aid."

"...was she...you know, tainted?" she wasn't blind to the hand he now had at the pommel of his sword, but chose to see past it. The Taint was horrifying, no matter how strong you were, and she could not fault the man his hesitation, much as it irked her; "I'm not letting no ghoul into the Keep."

"She wasn't tainted, now _please_ just let us in, you sod!" Boris exclaimed, frustration in his voice and face both; "Her breathing's getting' irregular 'n the bandages are drippin'!"

"I..." the guard closed his eyes and muttered something unheard before looking back at them again, nodding; "Get her inside then. Simon, notify the Arl."

Arl _Nathaniel_ Howe.

Honestly she'd known he would be young, considering he had been made Arl before his time, but still, the man before her was barely that. A youth, not even yet fully a man. Dark, brooding eyes and equally pitch-like hair that hung from his head in a disorderly mess. He was little more than a boy forced to fill a role he wasn't ready for.

Something in her wanted to hug him.

"Where did you find her?" the Arl asked, leaned against the wall in the small room they'd placed the elven woman in. It was a guest room, Nathaniel had explained, though he rather doubted his house would see great numbers of those in the nearest future; "I've heard of no Dalish clans in the area."

On the other hand, Vigil's Keep was also playing host to someone else, another youth she'd rather thought she'd not see again in the near future.

"Her wounds look severe." Jowan muttered, his hands hovering over the unconscious elf. Ava had undressed the woman as much as modesty allowed. The Darkspawn had cared little, and the bruises and scars covering the petite woman nearly concealed the fact that she was a woman at all; "I've never seen this kind of injuries before."

"Is it something you can heal, Blood Mage?" Boris was less than pleased at seeing Jowan again, of course. Good man though he might be, Boris was not the sort to easily forgive apostasy, nor blood magic. And Jowan had, in her partner's mind, gotten off scot-free by joining the Grey Wardens. Boris wasn't actually _wrong_ in that opinion, really, but Jowan was doing more good in his current role than he'd have done as a Tranquil.

Pragmatism had to win, sometimes.

"Warden." Ava reminded her underling, though Jowan merely chuckled.

"It's hardly an insult these days, I'm afraid." The young mage muttered; "After the attack in Denerim, the only way I'm walking at all is blood magic. I've done worse things with legal magic than anything with blood magic, Knight-Lieutenant."

"...well, can you heal her then?" he repeated the question, less mirth in his voice this time.

"You said the Darkspawn did this to her?" Jowan asked, not looking up from where his fingers danced above the broken skin; "I must admit I'm surprised they could at all."

"Why is that?" Nathaniel asked.

"I've... spent some time with the First of a Dalish clan, back during the Blight." He said it with a small smile; "I only saw senior enchanters in the Circle with more raw power...I'd have expected her to escape them quite easily, or simply wipe them out since _you_ could..." He paused at that, more contemplative than wary of offending; "These vines, they feel like arteries more than flora."

"They _are_ sprouting from her arms." Ava noted. She knew they should have been on their way by now already, lest Anders gained too much of a start on them. More than he already had. But something told her she ought to stay, at least until whether or not the elf survived was established; "We had to cut the rest off to free her."

"I'm not surprised..." Jowan prodded at the largest vine in the left arm, earning a pained moan from the elf; "It's blood magic, definitely, but nothing I could ever do..." Ava was struck again by the oddity that she was in a room with a blood mage, and not acting upon it; "From what I can tell, the vines both drained and sustained her, like...lungs, maybe? She definitely got nourishments through them, but was drained too."

"The Darkspawn used her blood to control the trees?" Nathaniel looked ill at the notion.

"Yes. I think, at least." Ava muttered, turning her head back to the bedridden elf; "Can you save her?"

"Well she's not dying right now, so I suppose _you_ already did." Jowan hummed; "Whether I can actually make her _recover..."_

"...well?" Boris pressed, leaning in.

"Depends on whether I can get the vines out." The young mage cast a glance at the unconscious woman, one Ava noticed held pity; "I'm glad she's unconscious..."

"Why?" Nathaniel asked.

"...Because this is going to hurt."

* * *

"...I suppose I should have seen this coming."

Alma wasn't exactly pleased, judging from her expression. And her tone. And the fact that she was glaring at Talia. All of those were pretty clear indications that, yes, she'd definitely done something that, in the old Breton's eyes, constituted fucking up.

Aedan was barely speaking, which really was also a pretty big indicator of the former, namely that she'd fucked something up, somehow. She refused to believe not obeying the words of a crazed old dragon serf or whatever Alma was - and she herself, probably - would be what she'd fucked up. Talia would argue that she'd done the sanest things possible when telling Aedan, but evidently that wasn't the case.

"I mean, really, of all things you _could_ do..." the old Breton sighed, turning from her to Aedan. Hard eyes softened, though they also held much regret. And still, Talia didn't understand _how_ Aedan knew Alma. He'd called her 'Naan', but...why? Had she been employed with the Couslands at some point? If so, _why_? Why on Nirn would someone so goddamn _weird_ work as a nan?

"Come in, then, I suppose." It wasn't really a request, and they both knew it. Aedan required a tug on his arm to actually register the invitation, and followed like an automaton, barely looking around. Was he even aware of her, or only of Alma? Talia wondered if maybe, the insanity that was her life had _finally_ broken through to him; "Johan's out gathering herbs, so we're alone in the shop. Wait for me out back, I'll lock up here."

The backroom was mostly, it seemed, dedicated to alchemy. The smells of wine, oils, vinegar and all manners of plants was heavy in the air, and a kettle boiled in the corner above pitchers and mortars. A single table occupied the center of the room, half of it hidden away beneath plants, books on plants, alchemical equipment and phials and flasks and papers.

It was almost a little nostalgic, honestly, and she would probably have reveled in the familiarity of it all if not for the circumstances they were in. Aedan had the mind, somehow, to pull a chair out for her, though he himself remained standing until she kicked one out for him as well. _Might as well bloody ask._

"You...know Alma?" she was careful not to sound accusatory. Honestly the last thing Aedan needed right now was her making it sound like he'd kept things from her. Especially because it'd be the top of hypocrisy to do so, in her situation; "...or, nan?"

"All my life." there was barley emotion in his voice at all; "All my life, and...no, I didn't know her. At all."

"Not all of me, no." Alma's voice was the only clue she was there before entering Talia's field of view. Really, how shoddy had her hearing gotten lately if _this_ was the best it could do? Or, was Alma just damned good at being quiet? She preferred the latter. It'd be less embarrassing, and less concerning; "I'm sorry, I didn't have tea or something ready for this...honestly I never thought you'd come this soon."

The 'or with company' went unsaid.

"...who are you, Nan?" Aedan gave the old woman a strange look. To give Alma her due, she did look uncomfortable at the tone of voice, and the look in his eyes. Actually it was the most uncomfortable Talia had seen her yet.

"Honestly..." she leaned back with a sigh, rubbing her face; "That's a hard one to answer..." the grin she cracked lacked confidence, and seemed nervous more than anything; "I've actually no idea where to start."

"You're not actually from Honnleath, are you?" Wasn't that the village Cullen came from too? Talia frowned, wondering if that was sheer coincidence, or somehow planned to the same degree as assuming Leliana's name.

"Aedan..." there was exhaustion in the word, almost like a plea. Though whether it was answered was hard to say, since the young Breton couldn't read his mind; "No, I suppose not...I'm a Breton, you see."

"Li...like Talia." He stammered, though far more so from shock than meekness; "You're from Tamriel too. And you're...everything Talia told me about you, it's true, isn't it?"

"To a degree, yes." Talia frowned at that, wondering if the old crone was about to shift the blame, or try to at least; " Not by any fault of hers, mind you. I'm just...a long life teaches you to hold the cards close. I've lived longer than most."

"How many centuries?" Talia asked, because by now she was damned sure Alma was older than she looked by far. She was ageless in mannerisms and movement, like every wrinkle and gray hair was a mere façade to hide behind. Alma, for her part, gave her a raised brow for that.

"Just two." She said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Next to her, Aedan's breathing hitched; "I must admit I've stopped counting years before you were born, my boy."

"Because of your bond to Hakkon." Aedan spoke the name like it was bile; "Always Hakkon. Always this...this _thing_ that...how do you even know Hakkon's not a demon? Dragons don't just _talk_ to people."

Talia stiffened a little in her seat. Because what if he was right? It was always the small, nagging voice of doubt in the furthest reaches of her mind. What if Hakkon wasn't what he claimed to be? Of course, he had to be, otherwise there wouldn't have been any bond at all from her drinking Kulaas' blood.

"I've met him." The words nearly knocked Talia out of her chair, though Aedan didn't seem half as shocked. Then again, he wasn't in semi-regular contact with Hakkon, and probably could...could have a more unbiased perspective? Damn it, this was giving her a headache; "I've studied under him as well, in his presence...though often somewhat indirectly."

"Where?" she found the question hard to push across her lips. Hakkon was always just...this idea, this concept, a disembodied voice within her mind. To suddenly have the chance at knowing _where_ he was...somehow, it was terrifying, and she couldn't put her finger on it. She'd seen him just once, in the lake of blood within her mind, but was that truly him, or just her perception of him?

"The Frostbacks." So close? It was practically inside Ferelden, not even two week's journey west. Her heart stirred at the thought, both with fight and joy, to finally see her mas- her _mentor_. Or, what was he really to her, now that Urthemiel was dead? Was she discarded, or did he still have plans for her? "I'll take you there, one day. If you want, of course."

"I..." she stopped herself and breathed through her nose, biting down on her lips; "...am not sure...what to say to this." Aedan was looking at her, both curiosity and worry in his eyes. Right, personal quest for Hakkon could wait. _Had_ to wait; "But...why even call me here? And why wouldn't you let me bring Aedan?"

That last bit made him flinch, and she realized he probably didn't know _exactly_ what Alma had asked of her. In hindsight, of course he wouldn't, because she hadn't told him, and neither had Alma.

"Why?" his voice was tight when he spoke; "Why were you afraid of seeing me again, Nan? Why didn't you want me to know you were _alive_?" a moment passed, before he finally asked what seemed a verbal hammerblow to the old woman; "...did you ever actually _care_?"

Alma's lips became a thin line, hard-pressed and pursed as her eyes glared at the table, averted from either of them. This stretched for almost a full minute, yet Talia couldn't find a reason to say anything, nor had anything really to add _if_ she'd wanted to, and Aedan seemed empty of words as well.

"I...I'm not good at these things, Aedan. Zenithar knows I've wondered often enough what to say, but..." A long-suffering sigh preceded her speaking again; "Yes, I cared, Aedan. More than you can ever understand, I care deeply for you and your family, far more so than I have any right to...But, I also know that certain events _must_ pass for the Culpa to continue its course as I know it. I've minimized casualties the best I could, lessened the pain where I could, where I believed it would leave the future within my bounds of vision..."

Aedan didn't have a reply for that, of course. How could he, when he knew so little of what the old woman even meant? Talia cringed, half with sympathy for her husband, and half with irritation that even now, it felt as if Alma refused to simply be straight with them.

Like they were children, and she the only adult.

"You know the future?" he finally asked.

"Fragments." She muttered; "Some clear, some not...It's memories more than visions, but easier to explain as the latter, I think. I don't decide on what I _remember_ , only when or...not even that. I know things that _must_ occur for the rest to come true, and some things are mostly guesswork. I've been trying...to maintain some semblance of control, or simply knowing what's next...It's a comfort thing, sort of."

"You _really_ suck at this." Talia sighed, because really, Alma was worse at getting to the point than _she_ was; "I've really, seriously got the feeling you're lying by omission here."

"I am." Alma's smile was devoid of humor; "You want answers, but the more I give you, the less the future remains as I remember it."

"Visions or memories?" Talia pressed; "Which is it? Because I'm getting tired of this, like trying to get answers out of my mother of all people..."

"Both? If you remember a vision, isn't it a memory then?" Talia felt her toes curling with frustration; "Just because you ask, doesn't mean I'm going to tell you."

"Then why did you even ask us to come?" Aedan demanded, scraping back his chair; "I'm happy, _really_ , that you're alive, but you're making me feel like my entire life's knowing you was just some sort of game to you. Was it?"

"First of all, Aedan, I only wanted Talia to come here." There was something pressing underneath his skin, she could tell. Aedan's fingers clenched harder and harder around the edge of the table, like he was about to flip the damn thing over; "Sec-"

" _Why_?!" he pressed, his voice closer to a shout now, angry. Talia, for her part, kept very still. This felt like something damnably personal, which was all the more ironic when considering that he'd been the uninvited guest; "Why didn't you want to see me? You claim you actually gave a shit about me, about our family, but you never so much as gave a sign of life, of anything? You even told Talia, _my wife_ , not to bring me?!"

Alma went very, very still. It was almost disturbing, the way she seemed to almost die behind those hardened, old eyes. Her next words came out as barely above a whisper.

"...what do you want from me, Aedan?"

"The truth, damn it!" Equally scary, was seeing Aedan, her husband, _this_ infuriated. It was a rare thing, and she was glad it was, because it was actually downright unnerving.

"You can't handle the truth." Alma's voice was as stark a contrast to his as could be, almost drowned out by the echo of his voice alone; "Believe me, I know. I've been there before. This _doesn't_ end well."

"Why not?" Talia found herself speaking without having meant to, her thoughts manifesting as words before she'd a chance to stop them. Alma stared at her, the glare returning for the briefest of moments before sinking back underneath the lifeless sea in her eyes.

"...because he'd never forgive me." The old woman's voice had grown thick with what Talia realized like a stroke was grief; "You've never forgiven me, no matter my reasons, no matter what was saved."

Aedan's fury dissipated from his face like snow under fire.

"...you knew Howe was going to betray my family." He whispered. Talia felt herself grow cold, colder still when Alma didn't deny it; "That's...you knew. You _knew_..."

"...It's the _only_ constant." Alma muttered; "It's always at the start of this. I didn't have a choice- preventing it...-"

Aedan gave her no more time to plead her case. He threw back his chair and ripped open the door, then stormed out before another word could pass over the old woman's lips.

Talia was in a strange place between pity and fury, not knowing which to pick and throw at her countryman. On one hand, she knew she had been the one to bring Aedan here, and force this to the surface, to rip open a wound that had almost healed.

Her throat hurt with the strain of suppressed emotions as she tried to understand just how monumentally she'd ruined this.

 _Damn it!_

* * *

 **Honestly that last bit was because, after writing this and imagining** **how much it probably _would_ suck, I kinda ended up a little tight in the throat as well. Even then, I could probably have done a better job at conveying the degree of _SUCK_ everyone is experiencing, maybe even just titling the chapter "Sucking" to really hammer the point home. **

**Damn it I'm glad the Empire is a thing in the story, because they're about the only _positive_ force going through right now. For now, that is. Everyone will be smiling again soon enough. I think. **


	13. The Better Part of Valor

**The Better Part of Valor**

* * *

"You summoned me, Emperor?" Omluard Aulus bowed before him, a sight that somehow never truly lost its novelty.

Decades had passed by now, since they had become acquainted beyond the merely pragmatic. The Bretoni king had always served to the best of his ability, both before the Emperor, and to his people. The man's integrity made him a rare treasure indeed when power so often slipped its corruptive fingers around the purses of officials.

Titus had never told him outright, but he dreaded the day the Empire was without this man.

"Yes..." He stood by one of the larger glass windows, overlooking the gardens that encircled the White-Gold Tower. Down below, so far down that it was out of earshot even had there been no glass between them, he could see his grandson rolling the youngest of the Aulus children around. The two appeared in conversation, sparking his curiosity as to what it might be they found so fascinating.

It wasn't the gardens, he suspected. The whole thing was far too pleasant and plain for anything truly interesting to be centered thereabout.

"You are familiar with the saying, Omluard, that youth is wasted on the young?" He didn't fail to notice his subject's frown at the question, though honestly it hadn't been why he was summoned in the first place either. Far more, it was a spur of the moment pondering, of how such apparent innocence could still exist in so dark a time.

"Considering my children, Emperor, you could say I ascribe somewhat fervently to it." The king chuckled, stepping closer. Now, he too could see the pair down below, and Titus saw the small nod of understanding; "It's a pleasant sight, nonetheless. I was worried Alai might be far too...introverted, but she seems to get on well with the Prince?"

"She does." Titus nodded, smiling at the sight. It was a nice surprise to see his grandson with someone of his own age, and not a courtier at that. The Crown Prince was far too much a believer in romantic marriages for his own tastes, but he had allowed the experiment nonetheless. Omluard had simply brought his girl along at a far more timely moment than he'd dared to hope; "Though for myself I was far more worried about Valerian. He lacks some of his father's _more...authoritarian_ traits, if I'd have to put a finger on it. Octavian at that age was...well, _Octavian,_ you see. He knew his destiny and knew what to do to close that distance."

"Whereas Valerian...?"

"Valerian is soft, and much too shy for his birthright." Titus sighed, though could not fault the boy much for it. Strong fathers either raised stronger sons still, or cowed their children into silence and respect. At least, Valerian had a heart of pure intent, and seemed keen on learning the arts of governance from as early an age as he could; "But, he's keen, and sharp. He might not have the makings of a warrior or general, but if the gods allow it, he will make for a fine leader in times of peace."

"Morrowind aside, we do seem to enjoy a tentative peace at the moment." Omluard wagered. Of course, the man was not aware of the Thalmor's true intentions, of their final goals. But _he_ was; "Speaking of which..."

"Her task is soon done with, old friend." It was not hard to guess at the magelord's concerns, devoted to his family as he knew the man was; "She has only a mission left in Blacklight."

"Blacklight?" Omluard frowned, blinking away what might have been confusion; "I was of the notion that House Redoran had come to their senses years back."

"Somewhat." Titus admitted. It was never a secret that House Redoran had a history of resisting Imperial control, to put it mildly. Lately, however, the bonds struck between them and House Aulus, one of the staunchest supporters of the Empire, had done much to mend relations. He still wasn't sure _how_ Omluard had pulled the betrothal off, impossible as the feat had seemed at the time: "There are still hardliners, of course. Many see the Empire as a negative, more so after we had to withdraw forces from Morrowind during the war, and the Oblivion Crisis before that."

"I don't suppose I'm to know what exactly my wife will be doing in Blacklight?" there was no resentment in his voice, the king having long-since come to terms with his wife's work for the Penitus Oculatus. It was a part of her life he was rarely to know of. Titus sympathized, but could hardly do anything about it.

There was a sense of irony in that.

"Not yet, I'm afraid."

"Should I be surprised to suddenly find my extended family...somewhat _less_ extended in the near future?" Omluard asked, a wry expression on his face. The Emperor had to conceal his grin behind a clenched fist, unable to keep it completely away from the man's joking hint at his wife's assassination work.

"I should think so, hopefully." He allowed; "I'm intending on this entire campaign to claim as few lives as possible, from both sides."

"Yet dedicating three legions to do so?"

"Best have a carrot, _and_ a stick, old friend." Titus said, turning back to the window. The kids were gone now, no doubt off to somewhere else in the city. He trusted his grandson enough that he could ignore the voices of alerts in the back of his mind. Valerian would take them no place shady, or he'd let Omluard tan his hide for endangering the girl; "The legions are holding their positions by the border, most of them in Hlaalu territory. I'm hoping the Dunmer will see the offer being dangled before them, and come to terms with Imperial governance."

"They might not, if we still insist on abolishing their slavery."

"I'm not making the offer to all the Houses, Omluard." Titus pursed his lips, frowning; "House Telvanni is too deeply steeped in affairs the Empire cannot condone. House Dres, whatever remains of them, still enslave the beastfolk."

"The Morag Tong won't be agreeable to it, I worry."

"The Morag Tong...are no longer a problem." There was a strange sense of elation at saying that aloud. Noble though the group might be and view itself as, they would and could strike at officials and officers, and even at himself or senators and councilmen. If this was to work, they needed to be removed from the equation, and the Oculatus had provided; "I've taken care to dismantle as much resistance as possible, with as few casualties as possible, prior to all this."

"...if I might ask, Emperor, what offer exactly will you extend to the remaining Houses, provided they come to the table?"

"Autonomy, more or less." Omluard frowned, and understandably so. Morrowind was, technically, yet a province of the Empire, only their autonomy had extended to the point they no longer saw themselves as such; "I will allow the remaining Houses, those that accept our supremacy, to divide between them the province. I'm very much hoping for a solution not dissimilar to High Rock's. They can maintain their local governments and councils, provided Imperial oversight is instituted, and we retain the right to veto the admission or expulsion of a House from their chief Council."

"I suppose that is sensible." The Breton nodded, running fingers through his beard; "What if they resist, all the same? The Redorans might in the end break ties with our family over this, and muster the Dunmer forces which are, from what I hear, not inconsiderable."

"General Tulius will be facing whatever forces eventually thrown at the Legions." Titus explained; "His mandate in the province is to be the vanguard of our forces."

"The Dunmer forces would severely outnumber him, wouldn't they?"

"It's not always about numbers, old friend." He smiled, looking out over the city. Glazed roof-tiles reflected the sun with the splendor of a dragon's golden scales, bringing warmth to his heart; "Sometimes, a single man can make all the difference."

* * *

"...you know, hindsight is a bitch and all, but...I think you could have handled that better." Talia muttered after long seconds of silence. She was torn on whether to follow Aedan out the door, and trying to find out what was actually going on. The latter required her to remain.

"I'd like to know how..." Alma groaned, her face flat on the table.

"Could have told me _why_ you didn't want Aedan here..." she sighed and rubbed her face; "Damn it this is fucked up..."

"Really?" Alma didn't even lift her forehead from the table when she spoke; "I wasn't aware...also yes, in hindsight that'd have been a better plan...why haven't you run off already? I'd have figured you'd join Aedan in getting the fuck out of here already."

"I'm trying to understand..."

"Good luck with that." The old woman chuckled morosely, the table vibrating a little as she did; "I've been doing this for centuries and I still don't get it."

"...why did you ask me to come here?" she finally asked; "I know you wanted me to come before the year was out, but you didn't really specify...I think."

Alma glanced up and rested her chin atop crossed arms on the table, blood-shot eyes watching for...something. Talia didn't really know, and wasn't sure she wanted to either way. The puzzle that was Alma still had way too many pieces for her to really get it.

"You've probably picked up on the general mood in Denerim, and with the Legion maybe, but there's agreement that it's only a matter of time before Gaspard decides to fondle some pretty Fereldan wenches. All he's gotta do, he knows, is to march in and take them." There was a wry grin on those wrinkled old cheeks; "Problem is, no one outside Ferelden really _knows_ the Legion is here, yet. There'll be rumors, definitely, but few would trust them. Gaspard will send spies, first, to find out the truth."

"There's gonna be a war, then?" she felt uneasy even asking the question, fearing the answer Alma had as well as already given.

"There is." A pit gnawed in her guts; "It will be the greatest conflict of our time, of any." the hairs stood on her neck, her breath caught as she listened to the old woman. A slight nausea rose in her throat; "I've seen its beginnings many times, but never the end..."

"Seen or..."

"Seen." Alma muttered, her voice echoing resignation; "It is a force of nature that cannot be stopped, only postponed. And I've postponed it for as long as could be done, but already the first sparks are flying, and the Empire brought kindling to the waiting bonfires when the Legions arrived here."

"Holy shit..." she wasn't sure what to do, or say. What _could_ she do, exactly? She swallowed her dread, and asked what she didn't want to know; "When?"

"Soon enough." A shiver ran the length of her spine, making her shudder though the room was warm enough; "Your child won't be born in peace. That's why I wanted you to come here..."

"To have my _child_ here?" dread was briefly forgotten in favor of disbelief, though Alma waved away the question.

"Idiot girl, I meant to _teach_ you." The old woman sighed, and for a moment Talia felt a little stupid for even having assumed the former; "I've two centuries' worth of experience and knowledge on the arcane arts. I'll not be able to teach you much in the short time we're going to have, but I'll do my best to shove as much into that skull of yours as humanly possible anyways."

"Ah..." Right, that did make a lot more sense, yes. She wasn't really keen on giving birth in an apothecary, ironically probably the one place stocked with everything a midwife would need. Would she get a midwife? Brelyna wanted to stay for it, but could she...could she ask her? "Then...you asked me here to teach me magic?"

" _Yes_."

"And...you couldn't just tell me that in a dream or..." the old woman's face fell inwards as Talia voiced the suggestion, eyes becoming devoid of life.

"Well, you see...the problem with that, Talia..." Alma sighed; "...Is that it is an excellent idea and I wish I'd thought of that myself."

"...right." She wasn't going to pursue that one, honestly.

"Look..." her kinsman said; "I don't have a lot of experience with this sort of thing. Mostly I'm either relying on the memories or I make it up as I go along. I've never actually _taught_ anyone before, in a serious capacity that is."

"No children, then?" she knew it was the wrong thing to ask, spur of the moment as it had been, when she saw Alma's expression. Had she slapped the old Breton there might have been less pain there; "Sorry, bad subject?"

"...once." she sighed and averted her eyes, blinking them together hard enough that Talia knew she was pushing down tears. Was this what Aedan felt when he realized his nanny was a Breton mage? To find that someone you thought you understood had a side to them you never expected? To be fair, his surprise was more understandable; "But, that's for later, I think. Right now you should probably go and catch that husband of yours before he flees the city."

"...what then?" Talia asked, standing from her chair. Alma hesitated, looking between her and the table as if the latter would give her answers, then finally looked back up again.

"If you want, I can start teaching you tomorrow. Otherwise I won't hold you leaving against you." She continued, after a long-suffering sigh; "I made a mess of it, really."

Talia nodded and left the old Breton to her thoughts, instead making her way out through the shop again. Aedan was, thank Mara, still right outside, leaning against one of the buildings whitewashed supports. He wasn't looking in her direction, instead his eyes seemed locked on the road where it curved off from where they had entered, and swung upwards along the river. She could count maybe half a dozen houses on each side of the street before it ended out in the far gate, where the small keep of grey stone there probably held the town's garrison.

Oxford's chantry was, oddly enough, what she herself first noticed, now outside. It was almost directly to the left of the apothecary, only a low wall separating it from the main square. Like the smaller Chantries she'd seen in Denerim and other towns, it was solid stone and tiled roof, washed to the point of almost gleaming, and with patches of grass surrounding it like a bizarre, ring-formed garden.

It wasn't half bad, actually.

"...are you okay?" it felt like the appropriate thing to ask, but in hindsight was probably a stupid question. He'd just found out his nanny through nearly twenty years had been aware of the impending treason from Howe, and had done nothing to stop it. Honestly, were she in his shoes she'd probably have burned down the shop, at least.

"I'm...I don't really know, you know?" it wasn't a chuckle, but sounded close to it when he spoke, which was a little weird but at least he was talking at all; "...I suppose. I mean, I've...come to terms, with them being dead, my father, Oriana, Oren..."

"Sorry."

"What for?" he turned and looked at her, a frown in his eyes; "You didn't do anything wrong, unless I missed it?"

"I brought you here, brought all this up." She sighed, not really sure what to do with herself; "I just...whenever I keep secrets, it bites me in the ass, usually others too. I thought if I told you about Alma, then it wouldn't be a secret like that and it'd stop being a problem...damn it I hate hindsight sometimes."

"I'm...not sure that's what this is, Tali." Aedan huffed; "If anything I should be the one damning hindsight with a vengeance."

"Because...?" Because, it was a sufficiently vague statement that he'd _know_ it got her attention.

"When you told me about Alma, back before we got here, all I could think about was, what if it was her?" he sighed, and she leaned up next to him, accepting his open side in the sunlight of the day; "It was all I could really think about for days. What if it was her, what then? What would I say, or ask? How would I feel, if it was her and I knew she wasn't who I thought she was?"

"Ah..." Right, yeah, that...honestly she had to admit it made sense. And, it kinda went a way to explain his behavior since she told him of Alma; "Sorry, about that by the way. I thought that was because you were pissed at me for withholding something like that."

"Shouldn't I be the one apologizing then?" he looked like he was about to, but she caught him quick with a peck on the lips, silencing him in his attempts to make an ass of himself. He wasn't good with apologies, really, sweet as they were when he did manage them. The gesture also seemed to do wonders for his mood; "Guess not."

"Guess not." She hummed, slinking back into his side.

Silence reigned for a few more minutes, neither of them really knowing where to go from here. It was a strange interlude where they'd kinda sorta done what they came to do, but at the same time not. It was like in the books, where the hero had accomplished a quest and knew where to go, but didn't know how. Or, something like that, maybe.

"So...why exactly _did_ she call you here?" Aedan finally asked, and Talia huffed with annoyance because it probably meant she'd have to leave her warm spot in his side, and damn her for it but it really was comfortable. _For someone with a wolf familiar I'm way too much like a cat..._

"More or less, to teach me." She sighed; "I think. She talked about a lot of stuff, mostly about how she acknowledged me being smarter than her, and then something about everything being a bummer because she doesn't have the time to teach me's much as she'd like..."

"Teach you...what, exactly?" he asked; "Spells?"

"Probably, yeah." The thought wasn't a bad one, really; "I mean, if a Breton gets to two hundred years, she's bound to have picked up some pretty amazing stuff. Thunderstorms at the snap of your fingers, pillars of fire so tall they'd scorch the skies...turning people into toads?"

"Wasn't that a thing Morrigan's mother could do?"

"Pretty sure that was just Daveth being a bit of a chicken."

"Right..." he chuckled, though she wasn't sure at which part. In hindsight it had been a while since they'd seen Daveth. He was supposed to have come to Denerim not long after them, but they'd seen no trace of him in their stay there, and they'd remained to catch up with events for nearly _four_ days. Had something gone...- "So, what'll you do?"

"...would you be mad if I said I'd like to stay, just a short while?" he wouldn't be mad, of course, but probably not exactly enthused at the prospect either. The frown on his face told her as much; "Just...like a day or something?"

"It's...important, right?"

"I think so, yeah." She nodded eagerly, not in the least feeling any guilt or shred of shame at jumping on his apparent, momentary lapse of judgement if it'd mean getting her curiosity sated. She was probably a bad person for that, but right now morals could take a step back.

"Do you want me to get us a room at the tavern?" he asked, then seemed like there was something strange on her face. To be fair she'd kinda worried he wanted to leave Oxford as soon as humanly possible; "What, you thought I'd leave you here?"

"Uhm...kinda?" damn it if the look he gave her didn't actually make her squirm a little. Alright, so she sometimes underestimated just how committed Aedan was, so what? She'd not had a whole lot of experience with people who basically embodied the white knight principle before meeting him; "Look, I just...you _really_ don't want to stick around Alma, and believe me I understand why. She's a right bitch like, eighty percent of the time I've known her so far...no wait, make that ninety, actually."

"Yet you trust her." he wasn't wrong there, and it wasn't a question either; "And I'm guessing it's not because of Hakkon, or the information she gave you about those cultists under Denerim?"

"She...saved Brelyna, remember?" Talia sighed, throwing a glance at the apothecary's closed door.

"So it _was_ her, then?" Aedan muttered, frowning to the point of pressing his eyes shut before opening them again, a long-suffering sigh escaping his lips; "Did she ever mention why?"

"No." she hadn't, and it was a little frustrating to go around with those questions inside her; "She hasn't even brought it up at all. But I still want to know...even if it means putting up with a right bitch."

"...I'll go secure us lodgings, then."

"Wait." She took his hand even as he was about to leave, interlacing her fingers with his as she rested her forehead in the crook of his neck; "Aedan. Thank you, for doing this."

* * *

"This cannot stand, your Majesty."

Belisarius felt a little on edge, though few could blame him. He was the unwilling and unknown audience to some Chantry representative from Orlais, currently giving Anora and Fergus a piece of his mind. It was the first time he'd come across a man of the Chantry robes in anything higher ranked than some low-level clerk, but apparently this was a higher tier within the organization, above Revered Mothers.

The meeting wasn't exactly official, and so with no scribes or notaries in the galleries, that was where he stuck it out, far enough from the edge and seated, so that no one on the ground floor could have spotted him without some serious acrobatics.

Politics didn't intrigue him. He'd stated as much before, and held onto it, but at the same time it was crucial that he be aware of changes to the political machinations of those who held power, should it signal upheavals for his men. Ferelden's sovereignty might be his mandate to uphold, but the men trusted him with their lives, and so far he'd already lost more than he'd care to answer for, and to Darkspawn in the woods no less, if the reports from Amaranthine were to be believed.

He didn't care much for the notion of what magicks these foul creatures could throw around. Against dedicated battlemages, of course, they had proven little threat, but the common Legionary was ill prepared for the arcane threats of these Emissaries, as they were called. He cared not for the name either, but supposed it was appropriate enough.

And now, on top of all his other problems, was this. Some Orlesian clerk strolling in, demanding an audience, _getting_ an audience, and then acting with such disregard for authority that it made him blanch. Did the Chantry truly have such power here in Thedas? He'd gathered so far that it _was_ influential, yes, but to the point that its clerks and serfs could simply march into the _Royal Palace_ , and receive audience...

Maybe he'd been underestimating them.

"Chancellor, please mind your place." Fergus Cousland reprimanded the uninvited guest. Belisarius made a note of having the man tailed, once he'd leave. If this ended with the Chancellor leaving with promises of war and worse, it would be well to have knife in the right hands, in the right place; "You are not in Val Royeaux."

"Clearly." The man hummed, though Cecium dared not steal a look to see the ongoings, for fear he should be noticed; "The Divine would have not tolerated the presence of such a gathering of heathens, for sure, Majesty."

"Said 'Heathens' relieved the city when the aid promised by Orlais remained... _absent_." Anora's voice was a golden one, to his ears. It was authority and stone, and a lashing whip all in one, and strangely enough one she'd not used with him, ever; "Where the Chevaliers abandoned their promise, dwarves and elves and the Imperials came to Denerim's aid instead."

Cecium wondered if either of them would have spoken such praise for the Legion, had they known he was present.

"And in kindest thanks, you surrendered your nation to them." The Chancellor stated; "How long, I wonder, till we see their foreign gods spreading their pagan influence throughout the land? Already the Anderfels are ripe with corruption from the presence of their newfound savior, a supposed Herald that just so happens to be one of these Imperials. Can you not _see_ what is going on?"

"Respectfully, Chancellor, the Crown sees only what affects its people." Fergus' voice was less of lightning than Anora's, but held much the same power. They were well suited for one another, Belisarius idly mused; "So far the Thaw is the fastest ever recorded, in large part due to the efforts of these heathens to cleanse the land of Darkspawn corruption."

"How about this for influence, My Lord? Within not many generations, if these people are allowed stay and freedom to worship their false gods, the Andrastian faith itself might corrode from its poisonous influence." The Chancellor hissed, creating in Belisarius' mind the image of a snake-like man in robes; "The stability Thedas has enjoyed for so many centuries, it might all vanish into smoke and fire once bonds of brotherhood no longer bind together its nations."

"When Andraste threw off the yoke of Tevinter, her army was not Andrastian, Chancellor." Fergus argued; "The day faith and words carry a greater weight than actions, will be a grim day indeed. The Empire has asked for next to nothing in turn for their protection as Ferelden rebuilds. Their soldiers are far away from home, and you would that we deny them even the smallest of homely bonds?"

"Of course not, My Lord." It struck Belisarius that while the Chancellor referred to Anora as 'Majesty', he seemed keen on referring to Fergus simply as 'My Lord'. He wasn't blind to the difference in deference between those two titles, and knew Fergus wouldn't be either; "But you cannot in good conscience deny that already we are seeing upheaval in the Anderfels, collusion with Tevinter, and now their presence here in Ferelden could spell the start of similar unrest. The Divine is deeply concerned with the threat all this poses to good, honest Andrastians in the affected areas."

"And we understand her concerns, Chancellor, truly." Anora interjected, her voice having reclaimed some calm; "However this is a matter for Ferelden, not the Divine, gracious and benevolent as her intentions are no doubt. We are not about to reject or reform the Chantry, nor will we ever likely consider such radical a turn. But, you cannot think, _in good conscience_ , that we will repay the open hand of the Imperials with the back of our own. Andraste herself would weep at such an act."

"Is that, what you would wish of me to convey to her Holiness?" So, the audience was coming to an end? It seemed much too soon, and he wanted to know more still about this Chancellor, and the potential power and threats he represented.

"We wish you a safe journey back to Val Royeaux, Chancellor." Anora's farewell was cold, and its swiftness and cut surprised even Belisarius, still in his hiding spot in the galleries. It was as well as telling the man to be gone from her sight, only in far less impolite a choice of words, of course; "Do you require an escort to Jader?"

"...thank you, your Majesty, but I believe I shall be well enough on my own." The sound of his footsteps growing more distant already echoed throughout the hall when Belisarius stood from his seat.

From the shadows next to him, a black-clad figure seemed to be birthed more than simply appear, one of the Arcani in their black masks and cuirass. Black cloak and robes, they were the lesser form of the Penitus Oculatus, and afforded to the Emperor's Inner Circle, of which Belisarius was part. Though prestigeous as it sounded, it really was just a circle of Imperial Generals, all humans, that the Emperor felt competent and loyal enough to entrust with select secrets and tasks. One might even make the better comparison to the Blades of old, though it would be a mistake to ever see the Arcani in a fair fight, or in armor. And they were never a hundred in numbers, even at the heights of the Empire before the Oblivion Crisis.

An old rumor was that they were what had inspired stories of the Nightingale, and others had it the other way around. He had only passing familiarity with those tales, in truth, and left the speculations to others with the time on hand to waste on such.

"Follow him until he reports to superiors. Find out what he says, to whom and who hears of it from them." There was no reaction from the masked man, bar the faintest hum; "Should he at any point discuss intentions of arguing war on Ferelden, silence him and all around him."

The shade of a man nodded, then vanished back into the shadows. Looking at the site of disappearance always hurt the eyes a little, like staring into the sun, yet it was a part of their repertoire that had never failed to intrigue the general.

Caution was the better part of valor, as they said, and if a few murders would postpone an otherwise inevitable war, he could sleep easily with the blood on his hands.

* * *

 **Did anyone else play the first Rome Total War? I swear that game was on a higher tier, but then that could be nostalgia coloring it all golden, too. I never did find out how to use the Arcani in that game, no matter how badass they would probably have been if I did.**

 **I figured some levity would be appreciated, after last time's somewhat dour scenes with Aedana and Alma. On the other hand, I'd personally appreciate knowing what people actually think of recent events in the story, since it's somewhat sporadic with commentary.**

 **Roku out :)**


	14. Imperial Infamy

**Imperial Infamy**

* * *

There they were, the curs.

Felvan Sarothren, Archmagister of House Telvanni and, he had come to realize, one of the last heads of his faction left now, surveyed the field of battle to be.

He had called a meeting for the House, for all the Heads of the Branches, but even as he did, the few remaining branches had been snuffed out. Entire families had disappeared with barely a trace to point at the villains, and at first he had suspected other Branches, or even other Great Houses.

But of course, no matter the puppet, the puppeteer sooner or later had to show his hand.

The puppets had come as a surprise, the Redorans absent from the battlefield when called upon. There had not even been a reply, and he had understood soon enough that the messenger would not return. Treason, then, from a House once so proud, was a dark smear indeed upon the honor of all Dunmeri. That they would side with the vermin now before him, he could not understand.

Why?

Why would Theldyn side with the Empire, even if by omission of his forces from the battle?

The Redoran Archmagister loathed the Empire, this was no secret. So, then, why had he sided with them in the end? The Redoran forces alone could have outnumbered the paltry Legion now arrayed before them, and yet he had refused the call to arms. Even as the rain poured, turning the hillside upon which Felvan stood, to mud, thoughts turned to the Redoran scion once banished, Rhea Redoran. Had she returned, and somehow turned her father to the Empire, or had the House betrayed them long before, and simply played them all for fools?

Whatever the case, he would deal with them later. Now, before him was a Legion of Imperial serfs. They came arrayed in lines, neat and disciplined, but they remained serfs more so than proper soldiers. They had brought five thousand men, whilst he had with him twice that, clad in grey and brown and gold, chitinous steel of true sons of Morrowind. And his men were gathered in orderly formations, not spread into a single line like the Empire's men were. It seemed they feared he would flank them, for nearly half their army had been placed behind each end in squares. He would not need to flank them, not today.

Even with the fabled discipline of the Legions, he would break through their lines and tear them apart. The valley between their respective hills would be well suited for such a massacre as the one he was going to impart them with, today. The ground would grow to become a marsh, oversaturated with the blood of men, not of mer.

"Archmagister" he turned to one of his guards, the man pointing across the valley. There, now that he looked back again, he could see a single figure leaving behind the "safety" of the Legion's ranks. He bore a flag, though not a white flag of surrender. It was a standard, boasting both the dragon on its purple background. It also bore a sigil, though from this distance he couldn't tell what; "What should we do, My Lord?"

"It seems to be a messenger." He scoffed at the notion, though maybe whomever commanded these men had grown cold feet at the sight of the opposition? Still, to have such thoughts bordered on dangerous overconfidence, the true bane of leaders; "Let's see what Titus' guars have to bark at us..."

The envoy continued towards their lines until he was well within range of their bows. A fireball could have smeared him from the world, and there would have been little the man could do about it. Even with this many soldiers, the true strength of the Telvanni House yet lay with their mages, something the Empire no-doubt feared.

"I recognize their sigil." General Onlueth muttered from his side, a spyglass to his eye; "It's the Skyrim Legion. Must mean they quelled the rebellion." A harsh chuckle escaped the scarred Dunmer; "For all the good that'll do them. Tullius brought his boys here to die."

The Skyrim Legion? Felvan frowned, uncertain of why it felt significant. They would be Nords then, yes, and stronger on average than the common Imperial, but still. There was something else to it, something significant...but what?

"I am Gaius Aurelianus, of the Imperial Legion!" the man below called, his voice echoing above the Dunmeri ranks; "In the Emperor's name, I bid you all, go home! Leave this place and leave behind any notion that you might win against the Empire! The Empire wishes no harm upon the Dunmeri people, and will take no actions against you for your presence here today! Go home, to your wives and children! Go home to your families, and live where you would find only your deaths on this field of battle!"

"Empire's full of piss and vinegar, aren't they?" Onlueth chuckled.

"In the name of Titus Mede the Second, and in the name of Akatosh, I beg that you throw down your arms and go home! Do not linger, for you will find only death in these hills!"

"They just won a major battle at Windhelm, didn't they?" Felvan muttered, trying to piece together this mounting sense of unease; "Do you recall the details?"

"Vaguely." The General hummed, the spyglass not leaving his eye; "Rumors about some sort of mage or warrior who threw down the Stormcloaks all on his own..."

"They called him something specific though..."

"I must admit, Arch Magister, I don't recall." Onlueth sighed; "Still, we should focus on there here and now. The men are restless."

"Form them up in a wedge and prepare to assault the middle of the Empire's lines." Felvan said, no longer listening to the ramblings of the messenger; "We'll break them in two and scatter their forces."

"Very well, Arch Magister." Onlueth nodded as she sheathed the spyglass and mounted his guar; "Soldiers of Morrowind! Wedge formation! Prepare to charge!"

Felvan remained where he was, however, his eyes not on the men but on the messenger before his forces. The human had yet to make his retreat to his own lines. Why, hadn't he heard the orders to ready for attack? Surely he wasn't so foolish that he thought they would not trample him underfoot for his role as envoy? No, wait, he was running to the side now, his stride faster than the Dunmer had expected of a man in plate.

Very well, then. It was time to sweep away the Legion here. Then he would crush the forces in Hlaalu territory and finally turn his attention on the Redorans. He might even launch Tullius over the walls of Blacklight, just to drive the message in. Morrowind was free, and would forever more be so.

Mounting his own guar, he followed close behind the army as it marched forward, driving towards the still unmoving Imperial formation. If they thought to brace against this charge, he would prove them the greater fools. He considered, briefly, if he should send men to catch the envoy, but then, why not let the man run all the way back to Cyrodiil, and tell of this massacre?

He watched with approval as his forces maintained cohesion all the way to the Imperial lines, though as expected the spear-point flattened somewhat as no man would ever find enthusiasm in such a position. Still, the men kept their pace, and clashed against the Legion's wall of shields and spears and swords, with all the discipline and professionalism expected of proper soldiers. And the Legion's line was thin, whereas his formation was thick and had enough weight behind it that it _would_ drive through.

The Legion's line soon enough began to buckle, and they had yet to deploy their extra men on the sides to thicken the rows. Whether it was inflated confidence in their own abilities, or panic crippling their leadership, he didn't know. But soon enough, their line would break in two, and his forces would spill through and around them. Finding himself in a well enough position, Felvan leveled a finger at the closest Imperial battlemage he could see. A bolt of lightning, green and unnatural sprung forth and closed the distance before the warding mage could even realize he was under attack. Flesh and cloth dissolved and became ashes, and those around him recoiled in horror.

Truly, even had he been alone he could have wiped this Legion out. But, no, if he really wanted to send a message to the Emperor, Felvan knew he had to beat them on their own terms; with pure, brute force.

Was this all a diversion? The degree of incompetence he was witnessing from the Legion was almost laughable, which in itself was bordering on the improbable. The Imperials were arrogant, yes, but rarely would they launch operations without thinking them through, and this definitely was not thoroughly considered at all.

A horn sounded, and finally the as of yet undeployed Imperials behind their lines made their move. What surprised the Arch Magister, however, was that they seemed of no mind to reinforce their lines. Instead it looked more akin to them wanting to lengthen the rows, spreading out on both sides. _What are they doing..._

"Push through, you men!" Onlueth called from ahead, leading the army from closer to the front; "Drive back these invaders, in Azura's name!"

Felvan glanced around, to see if something else was amiss. But there was no Imperial reinforcements approaching from the rear, or mages springing from the ground. The Imperials' own battlemages were wholly occupied with warding off the spells his mages threw at them, a status quo he was well satisfied with. Morrowind would not need mages to win this day, but the Legion definitely would, and so it seemed a satisfying trade-off. And to see them struggle, and to see fireballs and bolts of lightning still slipping through their wards, incinerating Legionaries in their vaunted plate, was a satisfying sight indeed.

A horn sounded again, this time longer than the first.

A mass of movement dazzled the Dunmer, if for but a moment, before he realized what was going on. The reserves who had extended the Legion's lines had started advancing, folding around the sides of his own formation. _Azura and Boethia, they think flanking us will be enough?_

It was not a strategy he had not expected. The Empire loved their convoluted strategies, and in a battle of such different scales of forces, it was the only hope they could have of victory. But still he knew it was not to be enough, for they lacked the lid to their cauldron, and his scouts had assured him no Imperial cavalry was nearby.

"Outermost lines, face the flankers!" Onlueth bellowed over the claxon of battle. The men complied, even if the truly outermost rows were cut to shreds by the charging Legionaries before they could truly react. It was still an insignificant number, in the grander scale of things. He could afford the losses, the Empire could not, and his men still had room to move and fight, something he had no intentions of giving up; "Front rows, push through with vigor!"

Some came too close for comfort already, some maybe hoping for personal glory if they could stick a spear through him. He dissuaded such notions with a wave of his hand, a crude gesture and spell at best. All the same, the Legionaries' screams were brief as the flesh fell from their bones, cooked and boiled with their own suits of armor as the cauldrons. The rest seemed to take the lesson to heart, and kept their distance. Still, he found them too close on his left, and cast the spell anew, ripping a dozen souls from slumping bodies that fell like sacks of barley.

He barely felt a dip in his reserves.

Felvan reined in his own mount, halting the beast before it could react to the shifting of the battle lines around it. A bird's eye view would have been appropriate here, to better keep an eye on the Imperials. Instead he himself was forced to be those eyes, and could to their rear still see the envoy, though now he was approaching fast, a warhammer grasped in both hands.

Damn it all, a suicide run? Felvan leveled a finger at the incoming charger, sending forth a bolt of death. When it hit, rather than dissolving his foe, the spell simply washed over him as if it was water on a duck. Again he struck, and again the spellfire was simply shrugged off like a mild gust of wind. The attacker's form seemed to glow with unnatural lights after each strike, twisting the knot in Felvan's guts into a full-blown seizure. Throwing his hands about, he let go of the reins of his guar in favor of instead hurling a swirling cyclone of fire at the man they had thought a mere messenger. He simply swatted it aside like one would a petulant child. _By Azura, what manner of sorcery is this?!_

"Rear line, turn about!" he called out in person, directing the soldiers around him to face the new threat; "Intercept and-"

" _ **FUS!"**_

A moment of clarity hit Felvan, equally horrifying and entrancing, as his eyes froze on the figure confronting the rear of his forces, bent back as if to inhale the skies themselves. The Skyrim Legion, they were rumored to have found a man with the soul of a dragon. Just like Tiber Septim. _That_ was how they had ended the civil war so quickly, and why Tullius would ever throw his men at the numerically superior Dunmeri forces.

The shockwave hit him before the sound arrived, turning the world into a blur of pain and spinning movements and cold.

" _ **RO DAH!**_ "

* * *

Hours later, General Tullius surveyed the battlefield.

He was man enough to admit that, had it not been for the newly appointed Legate Aurelianus, the battle would not have been one he could have won, not with a mere Legion in the face of what House Telvanni had arrayed against them, even without the Redoran forces joining their kinsmen.

He didn't quite know what kind of dealings, exactly, had gone down between the Empire and House Redoran. The latter had never taken steps to mask the disdain they held for Imperial authority, which only made it all the stranger that they would take the Empire's side in this.

Then again, he was just a soldier. There were no doubt deals being made of which he knew nothing, and as long as he and his men were left unhindered by them, he could leave well enough alone.

"Casualty report?" he asked of the Quastor before him, the man having approached to make just that report; "How bad is it?"

"First, Second and Third Cohort suffered the heavier casualties, General. A fourth of each was slain before the encirclement was complete, and the mages were too busy repelling spellfire to heal wounds." The officer reported with little emotion to his words; "Fourth and Fifth cycled in halfway through the fight, minor casualties on their parts, while the Sixth Cohort suffered only five casualties, one of which was a death. Seventh through Tenth suffered only minor casualties as well. In total we have lost seven hundred and five men, sir, with double that in wounded. The healers believe we would need three days' rest to recover the conditions of the latter."

"They have two, until the second night." They were on something of a deadline, and the Emperor would not be pleased to hear the Crown Prince was cut off because of _his_ dallying. His eyes turned to the prisoners, guarded on all sides by nearly every uninjured soldier the Legion had left; "What of the captives? Serious wounds?"

When the Legate had unleashed his powers upon the rear of the Dunmeri army, it had caused a chain-reaction throughout their ranks. Suddenly, they were encircled, and those behind were pressing forward to escape the monster that hounded their backs. But the more they pressed, the less they could move, and the snare had tightened around a force otherwise guaranteed to wipe them out.

Tullius knew he could have slaughtered them all, down to the last man. The strategy was not one he had devised, after all. It had been done to perfection back in the time of the Reman Cyrodiil, by one of the greater generals of the Dynasty, Hanaribal Barka. Back them, no prisoners had been taken.

"Have been or are currently being treated by either ours or their own mages." The Quastor nodded; "Eight thousand, one hundred and eleven, though we were unable to capture their Arch Magister alive. General Onlueth was caught, however, attempting to disguise himself as a common soldier."

"I trust any wounds he might have suffered have been tended to?"

"A slight concussion aside, he was unharmed upon capture."

"Good." He nodded; "Good. Dismissed."

"General, there is...something else." The man seemed apprehensive; "When the men made to burn the magister's body, it dissolved between their fingers, and those who... had touched it fell dead where they stood..."

"...I see." Behind the mask of calm, Tullius felt the urge to shout. Damn it all, so the Magister had slipped through death's grasp, then. He should have expected as much, really, from someone of such power. Right, right, he could...he could deal with this. He just...he just needed to finish with the general first, and then it was a question of whether to inform the men, or let them celebrate the night in blissful ignorance; "Dismissed, Quastor."

The Quastor bowed and wandered off, to where Tullius neither knew nor particularly cared. Instead his attention fell on the approaching Legate, the cape still somewhat awkward on his shoulders. _Happy thoughts, Tullius. Happy thoughts..._

"Legate Aurelianus." He greeted the man with a nod and a clasped hand over his chest, his subordinate now befitting of such; "Outstanding work, today."

"Thank you, General." His kinsman nodded, a smile beaming on his face. It was halfway hidden away behind the full beard that had sprung during their time in Skyrim; "Though it was your brilliance that devised our plans, I was merely the hammer to strike the anvil you set up."

"Maybe, but nevertheless the battle was not a winnable one without you." Tullius allowed himself some pride at having watched the officer before him advance through the ranks of _his_ Legion, throughout the Civil War. To think such power could be contained within the mortal frame...Honestly he'd always to some degree dismissed the old stories, those who detailed the deeds of Tiber Septim. But with such a warrior in under his command, doubt was hard to come by; "Still getting used to the cloak?"

"It's...new." the Legate allowed, humble in spite of his powers, or maybe because of them; "Rikke suggested I'd wear it when we address the captive, the General."

"Not a stupid idea, I'll grant her." should he wear his own? No, on second thought he'd much rather present himself a soldier than the kind of officer who led from safety. Let the Legates wear what they wished, he'd dress himself in blood-stained steel; "She's waiting for us, I take it?"

"At the wounded's tent."

"Of course." It spoke to reason that she would waste as little time as possible, really. Rikke was, in true Nord fashion, pragmatic, proud and stoic almost to a fault. Her loyalty to the Empire and a united Skyrim being part of that had superseded anything Ulfric could have offered her.

They had quite the small camp set up atop the very hill the Dunmer had arrived on. Scores of tents in orderly lines and rows, most of them housing soldiers and wounded, with a large enclosure dedicated to those captured in battle. At the edge of the camp, pyres still burned on, the winds spreading the ashes of their own dead to the winds.

Fielding a Legion that by now consisted so largely of Nords was an advantage here, he supposed. They regarded death in battle as almost a reward in its own right, and suffered no loss of morale when they watched the bodies of close friends and comrades being consumed by the fires. That, of course, and the fact that the Nords who fought as soldiers had a tendency towards greater strength than their Imperial cousins. He'd yet to actually find out if it was simple luck that he'd gathered so many men of strength, or if Nords had some trait that gave them these powers.

Rikke stood at attention as they approached, her helmet clasped in the crook of her arm. She seemed entirely unbothered by the dampness of Morrowind's spring, but then again they were as far south as Riften, so cold was hardly a problem, all things considered.

"General Tullius, Sir." She saluted him with her free hand, and did likewise with Aurelianus; "Legate Aurelianus. Fine show on the field."

"How's he been?" Tullius stepped in. Rikke didn't miss a beat, turning her full attention towards him again; "No trouble?"

"He's in chains, General. There's not much trouble he could cause." She replied, pushing open the tent's opening; "All the same, we've a constant guard on the man. Telvanni are known for their affiliation for magic, after all."

Within, the tent was bare with the exception of a single, solid chair that seemed as if it had sprouted from the ground itself. There _was_ a spell for that, he knew, but considering the irritating habit Dunmer had where they would light themselves on fire, the method had been foregone in favor of hammering a metal chair into the soil, and chaining the captive General to it.

"General Onlueth, I presume?" Tullius stepped in first, flanked on either side by the Legates. The Dunmer in question, stripped of his armor and left in the undershirts and trousers, regarded him with a glare made all the fiercer for his red eyes.

"General Tullius, of the failed Emperor, I _presume_." So, no pretenses of making nice, then. Honestly he'd hoped they could do this like civilized men, and not the harsher treatments the Empire could and would level on those who threatened its ambitions; "What do I owe the honor of your attention?"

"Well, since you're asking so nicely..." he smiled a little at the Dunmer's clear irritation; "I'm here to make you an offer, namel-"

"Pox on your deals, _N'wah_." Onlueth spat on Tullius' boot. There was a very real desire to reintroduce the Dunmer to his own saliva, with high velocity and impact. In the end though, Tullius maintained his calm, though the grin on the Dunmer's face told him his irritation was betrayed; "I'd swallow the shit of my guar sooner than I'd deal with you, or your decaying Emper-"

 _Thwack_

The tent fell into silence as Tullius took the arm of his legate and pushed him back. Eyes that seethed with frustration and anger centered on the stricken Dunmer, currently looking like he was trying to understand who had struck him with a hammer. A tooth fell from bleeding lips.

"Perhaps, you should refrain from insulting the Emperor in the presence of his officers, General." He would reprimand Aurelianus for this later, severely, but not in the Dunmer's presence; "As I was saying, I've come to you with an offer; the lives of your men."

"Wha', you mea _h_ you'll kih' 'hem if I refuze?" Onlueth laughed, a sound that felt wrong coming through what looked like a broken jaw. Blood splattered on the Dunmer's chest as he looked at them with ridicule plastered across his face; "Your veak, _N'wah_. You'd never ' _are_."

"You seem to think you've a choice?" Tullius pressed, stepping into the bleeding man's personal space, if he even had any at this point. The problem with the situation as it stood, was that the Dunmer was dangerously close to calling his bluff. The Emperor, for reasons that surely made sense to the initiated, wanted as few deaths as possible, on both sides of this conflict. That meant Tullius couldn't very well execute nearly ten thousand prisoners of war, and he damn well didn't have the provisions to feed them either; "Very well then. Let's consider your men the carrot, and the interrogators will supply the stick. You can start by detailing the forces your House has available, their positions and their equipment and quality."

"The only stick I shall feel..." Tullius suspected he already knew what his counterpart was going to say, but refrained from interrupting him anyway. Letting a broken man spew profanities seemed a _kind_ last gesture; "Is the one I'll hold as I add your woman there to my slave pens."

"Stick it is then." He shared a look with Rikke to make sure she knew not to beat the Dunmer to a pulp, regardless of whether he himself even believed he could ever make real on his threat; "Let the torturers start their work. Rikke, Aurelianus, with me."

They left the tent behind, an atmosphere of discomfort over his subordinates. Still, whilst Rikke had at least maintained her composure, the more recently promoted had not. To his credit, the Legate seemed at least remorseful of having broken conduct, though Tullius suspected he held none for the injury he'd caused.

"Legate Aurelianus."

"General."

"I never again want to see you strike a prisoner without my express permission and order to do so." His voice was cold as he spoke, but he needed to drive the point through; "We are the Empire, _not_ slaving sycophants or worse, who piss on the notion of sentient rights."

"Yes Sir."

"Act out of line like that again, and I'll have you flogged, rank and title be damned."

"Yes Sir."

"Good." He nodded, content that the message was received before slipping his helmet back on; "Now, I want you to go find the Centurion in charge of the prisoners. First thing come morning, we're releasing the captives, disarmed and without their armor, but unharmed and unhindered."

"Understood."

* * *

It was a week again before the rumors of Jader started to spread. Belisarius had suspected something being amiss before that, however. Merchants had stopped coming in through the pass with metal wares, and foodstuffs salesmen had stopped entirely, as if they were suddenly enriching some new customer. Said new customer would need a gluttonous appetite for both steel and pork and horse feed, which led the thoughts in uncomfortable directions. The General was writing up missives for the Cohorts currently clearing up the southern countryside, when knuckles rapped on his door.

"Cauthrien."

When the door to his office was opened, there was little real surprise at seeing the Fereldan general there. She'd been an almost regular visitor in the weeks since the demonstration on the training fields, and one he welcomed wholly for the intellect that was behind such an unassuming face.

"Cecium." She greeted him in turn, lingering in the doorway. When he had found that in truth the woman had no last name to address her by, and Cauthrien was indeed her first, he had insisted that as colleagues of equal standing, she address him similarly; "I've brought the reports, and news from the border."

"Come on in, then." It was rare enough that he found an equal mind, for him to be this open and cordial. But, he had found, Cauthrien was someone he could rely on to actually understand a situation as quickly as he, and come up with responses to it _almost_ as fast as he. But then, she had never had the resources he was trained to have on hand. In a way that only increased the respect he had for her; "I've tea, or ale?"

"Tea, thank you." She sighed and lowered herself into the chair across his desk, keeping her eyes on the papers in her hands as he poured them both the beverage. In truth, he himself had no preference to either, but it seemed the more hospitable gesture to drink the same as his guest. Cauthrien's face took on a strange, almost curious expression when she smelled the steamy waters; "...this is a new kind?"

"Wayrest leafs, actually." He explained, blowing on the tea, just because he was the sort of person who'd rather not scald the skin off his lips; "Part of a small package I brought with me. Won't last as long as I'd planned with company, but tea's all the better for it."

"I suppose it is, yes." She seemed to take the compliment well. He'd never really expected to find someone of his own mind here in Ferelden, but Cauthrien...she was capable, sharp. And she was good for conversations, and to hit ideas off on; "...It's very good."

"I'm glad you like it." A small smile reached his lips, one he made sure to conceal behind his cup until he'd regained some control over his expressions, then he placed it back down on the desk. Taking a breath, he folded his hands and waited for her to put her own tea down as well; "You have news of Jader, you said?"

"Yes." She nodded, carefully placing the tea down on the desk. There were already rings in its wooden surface from their previous meetings; "Are you aware of the Pack?"

"...no, I can't say that rings a bell, beyond the meaning of the word in common sense."

"I'd thought not." She seemed a little proud of that. Had she expected his own spies to have found something out about this 'Pack', and now took pride in it? Was it a military secret? "Most nations in Thedas have their own special forces, of varying quality. The Pack, is Ferelden's special forces, though engaged with espionage far more so than actual combat. Elves, dwarves, humans, men and women, it's...fairly hard to actually put any sort of description on it. On them."

"We've such organizations as well." He said, a smile of his own behind laced hands; "I'd say you've not heard of them before. But, would I be correct in assuming you've had these 'Packs' in Jader recently?"

"Yes." Her mood seemed to deplete a little; "Something is going on there. We've had reports that civilians are preparing to leave the town to go west, and yet there are still wagons carrying food and other essentials into Jader."

"As if to prepare for newcomers." He concluded, and she nodded; "You suspect it might soon be garrisoning an army?"

"It's not an impossible scenario." She sighed; "My predecessor, Loghain Mac Tir, always suspected the Orlesians of one day soon wanting to take back their territories in Ferelden. I'm starting to worry he was truly onto something, yet we dismissed it in the hopes of Orlesian support against the Darkspawn."

"Which never did arrive." He nodded, frowning; "Wasn't there a Grey Warden from Jader here?"

"Warden Riordan, yes." Her expression soured a little at that; "He left for the reinforcements we expected to still be waiting at the border, but we never heard from him again...I'm starting to wonder if he was silenced."

"Grey Wardens are neutral, though, aren't they?"

"Theoretically." She shrugged; "But when you can recruit from all ranks of life, you're bound to have Wardens who would give their lives for one country, whilst disregarding another. I imagine you are familiar with Aedan Cousland?"

"I am." He had to admit, she had a point; "I suppose Princess Aulus is somewhat more conflicted though." He realized the confused look in her eyes; "Ah, that would be, Warden Talia."

"I knew she was nobility, though..." the revelation almost seemed to amuse her; "Would you not say, should the Empire and Ferelden come at odds, that she would side with the Empire?"

"I'd rather she never have to choose." Chiefly, because that would mean he not only failed his mandate, but would have had to outright betray it, and his Emperor in doing so; "Regardless, so you suspect this Riordan might have simply been..."

"Yes." The thought seemed to bring her regret, though it was not a subject he felt ready to broach; "If that's the case, an invasion is almost definitely in the makings."

Silence reigned for minutes after that, himself not entirely sure how to proceed. Handling an invasion wasn't what he had expected when the Emperor appointed him this task, but...it fell within the mandate. To uphold Ferelden's sovereignty would involve repelling invasions, no matter how harsh the means employed.

"...you said you brought reports from the army as well?"

"I have." She nodded, seemingly relieved at the temporary change in subject, though both knew it could be only that. She unfolded the scrolls she'd brought along, each with the strange symbols the people of Thedas used instead of the proper, twenty eight characters of the Imperial Alphabet; "First, logistics have determined we can't at present afford the degree of reformation required to raise the Royal Army to the Legion's standards in terms of equipment. A compromise was suggested where current armor was preserved, and if necessary compensate with cuirass, vambraces and shin guards. Chainmail can be mass produced with the methods your mages introduced, though the iron is harder to come by than we expected. We've sent prospectors out into the hills to find out if the old iron mines are in any condition to resume operations."

"When Titus Mede conquered Tamriel, his men wore little more than that." Belisarius hummed; "The most important piece of equipment will be their shields, and their will to stand against charging cavalry. Horses, as a rule, won't charge a defensive line that doesn't buckle."

"We've gathered some experience in fighting cavalry, yes." She nodded; "Longbows can fell a Chevalier, but without a stake wall it's a slaughter."

"Sounds familiar...though I must admit Tamriel's wars have mostly been fought by infantry."

"No cavalry?" she seemed aghast at the notion, something he dispelled.

"On the contrary, High Rock's knights are neigh unsurpassed by any mounted force on Nirn, I would dare claim." Though it would take the Emperor's word in person to ever make them field as much as one outside their province; "But Tamriel has few plains that have not been taken up by fields, or simply are too rocky or uneven to field cavalry as effectively as infantry...The Legion has always been focused on infantry, and it has always worked."

"I see." It was a strange silence after that, wherein he wasn't quite sure whether she was disappointed with the somewhat lackluster experience the Legion had with cavalry, or intrigued at the claim of Bretoni knights surpassing even Chevaliers. Then again, _he_ had never seen a Chevalier. They might trounce the Bretons something fierce, a strange notion to consider. A sip of his tea, now not so hot again, brought his mind back to the present.

"About resources, then?" he sighed and placed the cup down again. Cauthrien nodded, fingering the edges of her papers.

"I've the numbers too, concerning available manpower." She said, something he'd not expected this soon. Usually such accounts took months, not weeks. Unless initiative had been taken even before he'd voiced the offer of rebuilding Ferelden's forces, which was not quite as impressive, but pleasing all the same; "The good news is that we've more than twice the manpower available to raise a Legion's worth of soldiers, so recruitment camps can afford to be picky."

"The Legion doesn't discriminate on recruits." He said it with a hint of pride; "Doesn't matter who you are. The Centurion is going to break you down and build you back up again..."

"That sounds...harsh." Cauthrien mused.

"Oh it is." He could only agree. The Legion didn't need to discriminate, because the training did it for them. People either made it through or fled in the night; "But it works. And you say you've twice the numbers?"

"The northern bannorns were barely affected by the Blight, if at all, and the two second-largest settlements in Ferelden are there."

"Highever and Amaranthine." He nodded, knowing both places now by name at least. The strings of fate were odd indeed that he now held such indirect ties to the lords of both places, though the young Howe would require cultivation still to properly fulfill his role for Ferelden. He could probably delegate a Quastor from the Cohort in Amaranthine to the task. Anyone lower might be seen as an insult; "Yes, though I don't suppose reconstruction will benefit from drawing so many hands away. Do you still agree with my intentions of organizing these people into Cohorts?"

"Well...yes and no." Cauthrien sighed, fingering the edge of her cup as if to drink but stopped herself again; "I'm thinking it'll be easier to organize if we make the units smaller than your Cohorts. Two hundred men in each?"

"Closer to a maniple, then." He hummed, pondering the suggestion; "I suppose it's not an unsound suggestion. You're thinking they might be easier to maneuver as well?"

"That _was_ one of the points I'd thought to bring up, yes." She nodded; "Once the men are familiar enough with such a system, we might be able to group such units together into larger ones, to Cohorts essentially."

"A gradual process, I can imagine." And one that might be slower than he'd like, too. But, at the same time he couldn't argue against her thinking. The Reman Empire had made use of just such tactics, and they themselves still organized troops into maniples on occasions. But always with the intentions of being part of the Cohort. Still, she was right in that it would be easier to keep an eye on for the burgeoning commanders; "But not a bad plan. Sadly not one we seem to have the time for either, though."

"No, I thought as much too..." Cauthrien sighed, standing. He didn't follow, instead watching as she went to the wall, where the map of Ferelden he'd had brought in now hung like tapestry. Nowhere near as detailed as the one in the palace, it still allowed him some perspective when he planned out troop movements; "If Orlais comes, it will be in force, and in numbers greater than we can match."

"Almost certainly, yes." He agreed; "You fought them before though, thirty years ago and won."

"Guerilla war, yes." She nodded; "But I didn't have a role in it, considering my age. I was barely a woman grown when I first met General Loghain, and that was very late into the war indeed. Orlais lost interest in Ferelden, I think. River Dane was their last serious attempt at taking back control, and history knows how that went."

"A crushing defeat, yes." He'd yet to find a book on the subject, but people loved to talk; "They say Loghain shouldn't have won, but did anyway. It's like the battle itself is downright mythic to your people."

"In a way, I suppose it is." Cauthrien sat back down, fingers slipping around her cup; "Some say the Maker himself intervened, others that the spirit of the River Dane itself came to our aid, though most clear minds agree that luck played the largest part."

"Spirit of the River?" That was a new one, he had to admit, and not one he'd heard from any Fereldans yet. Was it her own perception, then? "I didn't think the Chantry would allow such superstition."

"Hard to ban what people saw, I think." There was something distant in her eyes.

"And what, exactly, did people see?" Spirits were rarely kind beings, and usually it was some Daedric entity playing tricks. He couldn't tell what was the catch here, though.

"A wyrm, or...some kind of dragon, but without wings. Supposedly it leapt from the river and burned down the Orlesian war camp, scattered their horses and ruined their supplies." A small smile crept across her lips, far too many scars upon them for a woman of her age; "Fairy tales for children today, but find a veteran at some tavern, and enough ale in them might spill the tale. Supposedly."

"Supposedly." He repeated, though he knew to suppress his curiosity; "Though I doubt we'll have such boons this time around."

"Probably not, no...Wardens are neutral, so Talia's not going to pitch in, though I'd ask her if there was a chance." Cauthrien lamented sourly; "Honestly, it's almost comedic how such destructive powers always end up with the people not allowed to use them for their country. _One_ of their countries."

"Quite a lot of events _do_ seem to have been centered around the young lady recently..." he huffed, halfway between irritation and amusement; "You know, people have been declared favored by the gods for less, in the past."

"From what I've heard she doesn't seem to share thát particular view..." Cauthrien scoffed; "Apparently it wasn't entirely without... _sacrifices_ , that she gained those shapeshifting powers..."

"Huh..." Maybe that was something to inquire about with the princess, next time they crossed paths. Otherwise he could send a message back to Cyrodiil, should the need to know supersede his patience; "I confess, Ser Cauthrien, I have not followed her case closely. Nor is it my place to do so, when I've a mandate to defend a land she's politically not allowed to."

"Fair point." Cauthrien nodded, leaning back; "So, in the event of an Orlesian invasion..."

"Scorched earth seems the most appropriate, starting with Jader." He stood, moving to plant a finger on the dot the map detailed as 'Jader'; "If it truly is being used to garrison the Orlesian army, it will hold few civilians to make space for the soldiers. We _could_ hit it with relative impunity, and deal Gaspard a wound before the war truly starts."

"And give him the excuse to invade he's been hounding for."

"He's got it anyway." Belisarius muttered; "Some Orlesian Chantry clerk was in Denerim a week ago, threatening repercussions if the Legion was permitted to remain in Ferelden without sanctions. None have yet been leveled upon us, and the man I sent to stalk the clerk has not reported back."

"...you sent a man to stalk a member of the Chantry?"

"In the case that he would promote the idea of invading Ferelden, yes." Whether or not she approved of the decision was irrelevant now; "If he started talking of war, the shadow should silence him. But he's not reported back yet, and I've heard nothing by any other channels. I can only speculate that whatever intelligence Gaspard runs, it snuffed him out."

"Maker's Breath..." Cauthrien whispered, her eyes pressed shut for but a moment. She inhaled sharply, righting herself in the chair; "Alright. So, we assume Gaspard now finds himself with appropriate cause to invade. You say we hit Jader. How, the city would be dense with Orlesian soldiers?"

" _Mors desuper_ , Cauthrien." He said it, though the words felt more like they demanded to be whispered, such was the weight they bore; "I would raze the town in a surprise attack, then draw them into killing zones all along Gherlen's Pass. Ideally, we'll rout their army before they break our lines."

"The pass has steep hillsides, and areas that are more marsh than not..." Cauthrien nodded, tacit approval in her face; "But it has a well-paved road, and the Chevaliers that escape... _whatever_ you plan with Jader, will surely come charging down it."

"True, but cavalry bereft its ability to flank is cavalry rendered neigh useless." Already he could see it, the massacre he could throw at the Orlesians. He could kill their nobility in their hundreds, thousands even if they sent such numbers, as long as he could decide the battlefield in advance.

Aldmeri Sunbirds and battlemages could not fully halt the Imperial war machine, then neither would these over-armored cavalrymen. The Bretons, with all their infighting through the centuries, had devised the best ways yet to kill a knight, whether it was on his mount or by throwing him off of it.

Was he a cruel man, then, for making use of such tactics? Deliberately he would be slaughtering young men in their thousands, but then, that was what war was all about, wasn't it? A wise man once said that wars had never been about dying for one's nation, but to make the enemy die for his.

"You clearly have something planned out already, Cecium." Cauthrien stated more than asked, and he had to allow her the small smile he now bore; "So, do you think we can win this?"

"Give me a month, and I could crush ten thousand men in that pass." He said, and in truth it was no boast. If he was to have a month of proper, unhindered preparations with the workforce of his Legion, and more, he could and would render Gherlen's Pass a killing zone of such infamy and deviousness, it might just land him in the books.

Hopefully, he _had_ a month.

* * *

 **Like always, I do hope you enjoyed the chapter :)**


	15. Divine Punishment

**And, so, we are back to it XD**

 **Honestly, it's been so long since I could sit down and write, at first I'd actually forgotten how to do it. Then, I had to go back and read through all the chapters in this book so far, just to remember the damn thing since everything else was physics and geothermal sciences and assorted bull.**

 **So, we're back with a chapter that I spent most of yesterday writing up. It's got a bit of everything in it, and of course Belisarius, because at this point I just genuinly love his character.**

* * *

 **Divine Punishment**

* * *

" _Who_ is coming here?"

In his own defense, Belisarius felt like his disbelief at the Queen's - and now her lawfully wedded husband, a wedding he had not attended - words. Anora looked at him like _he_ was the one refusing to make sense, which really, she had no right to. It had been nearly a month now, since they found out about the Orlesian troop-buildup on the border. Gaspard had yet to make a move, but considering the concentration of forces the Queen's spies reported there, it was a matter of when, not if.

"Divine Beatrix the third." Fergus replied for her, his posture somehow changed since that piece of metal was clapped onto his head. Had he been asked, the General would have argued the wedding far too early, but then again, for all he knew Anora might already be pregnant, and it was simply to avoid a scandal. He kept from politics as much as he could, for a reason. Royalty tended to rarely be as pragmatic as he'd have liked, and this new example was merely proving his point, for all he seemed alone in realizing it; "She has offered to meet with us, and you in particular."

"I have agreed to no such meeting." He argued as a point of principle, really. To have something like this forced on him spoke of someone not trusting him or his intentions. For all involved sakes, he hoped it was the Divine pushing people around, rather than Anora or Fergus getting second thoughts on standing up to Orlesian aggression; "I don't believe I was even asked."

"Nor were we, to be honest." The Queen sighed; "However, the Divine is an elderly woman, and rarely makes her voice known in politics these days. To have her offer mediation, possibly, could prevent bloodshed between us and Gaspard."

Damn the man, that Gaspard's very presence might now force him to suffer the presence of some religious zealot. Was this what the Tenth was dealing with in the Anderfels, he wondered? Tullus at least had yet to depart from Tamriel when he himself had left, so the younger General at least had some extra time spared from the company of the Chantry's most devoted. _Divines he...Gods help me deal with a Divine, of all things._

"Isn't she the one threatening us with a crusade, if she feels so inclined?" the looks he received was enough of a reminder; "An Exalted March, I mean."

"The Chantry cannot afford to ignore possible threats, General." He didn't think it sounded much like Anora believed in her own words. More like it was she simply spoke them to reassure herself, not that he could blame her. The world felt increasingly like old borders and norms were in upheaval, and that something else was coming, something... _bigger_ , than just this worsening of relations, and even more so than the threat of invasion; "All the same, we should use this chance the best we can. If Divine Beatrix's intervention might stop Gaspard in his tracks..."

"...understood." he knew what this would entail, of course. As the mandate commanded him, so would he employ whatever means necessary to ensure the sovereignty and integrity of Ferelden, until such a time that her armies could do so themselves; "I suppose it would be more prudent then, were I to treat her with the same deference as were I Andrastian?"

"Could you do so without obviously faking it?" Fergus asked, his lips twisted into something amounting to a wry, nearly amused expression.

"Possibly." Belisarius relented, knowing it was a fight better off not fought at all. It wasn't like he _wanted_ a war, after all. If this could all be solved by offering whatever lip-service was needed to the Divine of Orlais, then so be it, and all the better for it; "When is she set to arrive?"

"Sometime this week, by ship from Val Royeaux." Anora said, frowning; "I must admit I am relieved she did not choose to come by land. I take it the defenses at Gherlen's Pass are progressing?"

"Ah..." it took a moment before he realized the Queen had moved the topic of conversation back to something _he_ understood, if only temporarily. Being that they had not yet left the throne room, he approached the grand map on its wall, an object of his continuous admiration. Had it been a map of the likes the Cynod would take pride in, he could have brushed a finger against the runes they'd have carved, and brought Gherlen's Pass into greater perspective, something the mages called 'to zoom'. The word was ridiculous in and off itself, but then again, mages tended to ascribe to that kind of thing; "Thanks to Gaspard's hesitation, we've managed to dig in better than I'd dared to hope. We're still constructing the stockades, but the trenches are as well as finished, and the ballistae-pits are well enough protected."

"What exactly did you need so much iron for?" Fergus stepped up, arms crossed. The Imperial suppressed a smile, wondering whether it was for him to disclose such a simple, yet lethally effective instrument of war. It struck him as odd that the Fereldans, being so often at odds with their cavalry-heavy neighbors, had never thought of caltrops.

"A little surprise for Gaspard, in case he sends the cavalry in first." It would have been nice now, to have had a caltrop to display. Of course, being what they were he was not exactly liable to keeping one as a paperweight; "When the Bretons have fought one another, it has always been with cavalry. When they became integrated in the Empire, they brought along the caltrops. It's a little four-pointed star of iron, barely larger than a clenched fist, and just as hard to spot in time when charging on horseback. You strew them on the ground like you would seeds on the field. When either cavalry or infantry charge over it..."

Anora's wince, slight and as if upwards into herself, away from the ground, betrayed that she'd understood the principle.

"That sounds...gruesome."

"They're usually rather hard to find again too, after the battle's over, plus our own forces need to advance as well." He drew imaginary lines, like crescents on the map where he could reach the lower parts of the pass. Bringing something to stand on might have been prudent, but also far from elegant; "We'd lay them down in patterns like this, and make sure the centurions know where to avoid."

"I should hope it does not become a necessity." The Queen sighed; "For better or for worse, I have a feeling we'll find out in a week."

...

The smell of something burnt permeated the air, even in the lightly forested woodlands around Oxford.

"Again."

For Aedan, there were a lot of uncertainties in his life right now. Was his country going to war again? Was the world going to end because his wife kept having the same dreams? Was his child going to be born healthy, or at all, and in peace or in war? Who exactly _was_ Alma, the old woman he had once called 'Nan'?

The last one was, perhaps, the most pressing right now.

Talia resumed the same stance she'd been made to take for well over two weeks now, one hand clenched and one with just two fingers jutting out, together. It was the same gesture Brelyna always made when preparing to shoot lightning at something, he was aware of that much.

There was, however, something of a difference when it came to the results produced from the whole, arcane dance.

"Son of a-!" He winced along with his wife as the spell misfired, causing instead the electric shock she'd been building up to pummel the ground near her. The shock hit her straight through the bare skin of her feet, a method Alma had more or less demanded - actually, there hadn't been anything 'less' about it, in hindsight - before being willing to progress her from books to the real thing.

It used to be hard to imagine that magic from Tamriel could come with any downsides, considering demons were no threat to their mages. But, then the training regimen seemed pretty much the same as he imagined mages in the Circles went through.

"Again."

There was no mercy to be had, however. The old woman, a Bretoni mage by birth, did not allow Talia a break from her training. He still had trouble accepting her supposed visions, but then, if Talia had similar ones, was there something to it?

To her credit, his wife had long since stopped trying to appeal to whatever vestiges of humanity was left in her older countryman. Alma simply repeated the commander every time the spell failed, and watched with only the smallest of smirks as Talia time and again tried to blow up a tree across the clearing, only for the grasses at her feet scorching away with arcane heat.

"Again."

Talia, again, performed the same, almost dance-like gestures. He had never seen Brelyna going through those motions, though Alma had explained only the inept needed the long, drawn-out sessions to direct their flow. And while that didn't exactly make him any less irritated with the old mage, it did raise his respect for his friend's abilities. The last letter they'd received from Highever - which in turn meant his mother was pretty well aware of where they were, though not why, thank the Maker - had detailed Daveth's departure, as well as Brelyna's a few days prior. Their leader was apparently headed westwards from Highever, while Brelyna had started towards Denerim, though she'd not said why.

Such thoughts, however, ceased when Talia tried yet again.

Sparks flew, strands of light dancing and twisting around her arms like coiling vines would a tree. Aedan watched with unbroken fascination, hoping yet again that it would succeed. Talia was ashamed of her own inability, he knew, and the pity gnawed in his chest, knowing he couldn't do a thing to help her.

Again, the bolt of lightning shot from the tips of her fingers, dragging an uneven path through the air before plunging into the soil. Pebbles and grass and dirt flew as if struck by a physical object, and Talia winced back. No shock followed this time though, which came as much of a surprise to him as it seemed to her.

"Eight meters this time." Alma noted from her seat on a boulder, legs crossed beneath her; "Halfway there."

...

"Grandfather?"

The Emperor of Tamriel, looked up to regard his grandson with an expression most would never see upon their Emperor's face. Fondness, he reserved for family. Valerian approached his desk, posture and gait everything one could expect from a prince of the Empire, of the Mede line. Hair as golden as fields of ripe grain, and with an open face the people could only love. Titus smiled and beckoned him closer, himself taking the moment to lean back in his chair, work and reports pushed aside if only for the moment.

"Yes, Valerian?" the boy had been of several minds since the departure of Omluard and his daughter, back to High Rock, a week ago. To be fair, it was Titus' own devices that had seen the boy so enraptured by the crippled girl. Never having seen the rest of the Aulus children, it had been a risk, but a calculated one, for it seemed Omluard and Rhea could not stop themselves from producing daughters of peerless beauty.

A vice most Breton lords seemed keenly aware of, amusingly. Still, he had not been prepared for just how quickly the girl, Alai, would ensnare his grandson. In truth he had expected it to take weeks, not hours. But, then again, no matter how carefully one planned, there was no way to plan for the minds and hearts of the young.

"Does magic have a language?" Another thing then, that he had not foreseen. The question was strange enough in and of itself that it made him still in his chair, and it was clear Valerian noticed, from the way his feet shifted where he stood.

"A language?" he frowned, not unkindly; "...I cannot say I know that. What makes you ask?"

"...well, it's just...something Lady Alai mentioned." Was he himself a bad man, for finding such amusement in the obvious discomfort of his grandson when it came to such matters? Perhaps, but it was enjoyable regardless of ethics; "About how do we know how things like runes work, if they only work when all the lines are correctly drawn and...such."

"I see." He could admit, _that_ was a topic that had occasionally cropped up, mostly in his own mind in the dull hours before dawn, when resigning to yet another restless night. It was also a question to which he had never found an answer, and never thought it worth the hassle to inquire with professionals. Willing though they might have been to gain his favor with an answer; "Well, I would suggest asking the Cynod, in such matters." He settled his expression into serious folds; "Valerian, I would like to know your thoughts on the girl, now that her father is no longer here to loom ever so threateningly."

Omluard was overprotective in the way only the father of girls that had become women could be. It was a source of great amusement, though he did not mention such to the man himself. Valerian, for his part, seemed to have at first been unaware of the Mage-King's sharp eyes, but had eventually, somehow, caught on.

At the end of the day, the Emperor started drafting a letter for Omluard, voicing thoughts of a more permanent tie between their families.

...

"So...that would be her ship, then."

To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. A grandiose frigate maybe, or a splendid Dromon, or maybe a Cog? The ship approaching Denerim's harbor now, four days past his notice, was none of those, if perhaps closest to the last. It seemed a ship meant for speed, and one he could have mistaken for the vessel of pirates at any other time. The only tell of its passengers was the Sunburst flag, swaying from atop its mast.

"The Divine often travels in less than official ways, should the situation require it." Anora was hard to recognize, as was Fergus at her side. Neither wore official wear, but rather looked the part of commoners. Or, as common as they could appear, given the obvious quality of their cloaks and boots. Dockworkers threw glances, no doubt thinking them wealthy merchants or members of the lesser nobility. Although, it would have been greatly amusing, the situation aside, if someone had passed and greeted them as majesties; "We will approach her upon landfall, hopefully without making a scene, and go together to the Palace."

"You have this planned out, then?" he muttered, keenly aware that while some looks were thrown at the monarchs at his side, his own uniform drew more. There was, after all, no reason for him to not be at the harbor, when so much of it was still being rebuilt and in places expanded, all under the oversight of Imperial engineers and architects.

"Much as we can." Fergus hummed, watching the ship touch pier; "It's not exactly standard fare for the Divine to arrive here incognito..." Belisarius frowned, noticing more and more of the dockworkers had stopped what they were doing, eyes on the Sunburst flag; "...obviously."

"Attempts at going unnoticed might have involved not flying the Chantry's colors, then." He sighed, almost not surprised at all. It had been the same back in Cyrodiil, when he'd been a member of the Legio Domestici in his youth. Priests sneaking off to the brothels, in cloaks so suspicious that the guard had stopped them on sheer principle, defeating the intent. Happier days, before the Thalmor scorched the continent; "What should we do if she actually comes out in full regalia?"

"Then...then we pray, I suppose." Anora muttered, sounding as if she now expected just that to be the case. Belisarius was about to argue that even the Divine would not be so stupid, when the first passengers emerged from the boat; "...I suppose we should start praying."

An elderly woman led the small procession embarking from the vessel, clad head to toe in the purest white, though the dress seemed to flow into a kind of ornamental headpiece, seamlessly and without stop or gap. The Queen actually groaned next to him, even as the crowd that had by now grown, started first in mutters, then reverent cheers as they realized just what kind of visit they were witnessing.

"Yep..." Belisarius sighed; "Just like home."

"Should we...approach them?" Fergus voiced, even as the crowd grew, with scores of people now streaming from houses and side streets. The Divine might as well have arrived in a massive, floating palace for all previous attempts at discretion now seemed to be worth.

"I don't know..." Anora moaned; "Gods, I don't know..."

"God _s_?" He knew it was an unkind thing, but to let the chance escape him would have been a lifelong regret, he knew. The Queen's glare told him what she thought of that.

"I don't suppose we could just...snatch her from the crowd?" Fergus suggested, and Belisarius felt like he'd gotten something stuck the wrong way. Armor or not, there'd be few ways more certain to get them mauled by a crowd than to seemingly abduct the head of the single-most widespread religion on the continent; "...where are they going? That's not the way to the Palace."

"They are going to the Cathedral." A voice came from behind them, so close it nearly made Belisarius draw steel on sheer instinct. The monarchs turned about as well, no doubt alarmed or caught at least by the Bretoni accent. In this case, of course, it was Orlesian, a distinction he was really starting to grow weary off. A woman had somehow snuck up on them, every feature bar her eyes concealed behind a purple veil; "Her Grace would see you now, Your Majesties."

"At the...cathedral?" Anora seemed vary of the newcomer, a wise trait. She'd halfway stepped behind Fergus, whether either of them had even realized it; "H-how did you sneak up on us, the boat only just arrived?"

"The Divine didn't arrive with this ship at all, did she?" Belisarius noted, realizing that in hindsight it was obvious; "That whole procession's just a diversion?"

"And an effective one, yes?" the messenger sounded amused, and surprisingly young. Then again, compared to him every woman was young, and he usually just dealt with Cauthrien and Anora, mature women both; "Come."

He looked to the sovereigns for direction, considering they were the ones in the center of this. Behind them, the adoring crowd had only grown, and was making its way away from them. By design, then? Either way it seemed to add credentials to the notion of this being preplanned.

"I think we should do as she says." Fergus spoke when Anora didn't; "What's the alternative?"

Belisarius wasn't blind to tha glance the Queen cast at his sword, sheathed and with its pommel at rest in his loosely closed palm. He knew her thoughts, and offered a nod of reassurances. He might be old, but unless that woman had a dozen sellswords 'round the corner, he was far from useless with the blade.

He wouldn't have been picked for this task if he'd been useless in a fight.

"I agree." Anora said at last, taking point to where the young woman was waiting for them, out of what he hoped was earshot, though probably not; "Very well, then. Lead on?"

In a way, he wasn't surprised when they wound up at the Palace once again. His two companions seemed of a different opinion, but he'd suspected they'd be going here regardless. Rather than entering the massive structure though, the veiled woman opened a side door - that he could have sworn was usually locked - and gestured for them to step through, into the palace gardens.

The gardens bore full testament to the overwhelming force of life with which Spring arrived. Not a patch of land beyond the tiled walkways was free of flowers and grasses, most of them self-seeded. And most of them foreign to him, beyond the occasional marigold or wormwood flowers.

On one of the benches along the path, an elderly woman sat. Appearance wise there was nothing particular about her, more akin to some burgher's wife than the head of the Chantry. And yet, the young woman that had led them here knelt before her, lifted her veil just enough to kiss a ring on wrinkled fingers.

"Divine...Beatrix?" Anora was the first to speak, after a gesture from the old woman had the younger Orlesian back away. Belisarius felt like all it took was for him to blink, and she had escaped his sight. More than a mere attaché, then.

"Queen Anora and, if I am not mistaken, King Fergus, I take it?" The Divine stood, her visage somehow radiating authority in spite of her commoner's attire. Even he felt it, despite having not a shred of faith in their Maker. And all the same, the voice was not unkind, yet still strong enough that it could have come from the lips of a woman half her age.

Both monarchs bowed to her in deference, a gesture he made a point of not mirroring. He would be polite, but not to the point that he let the Divine assert authority, not on an Imperial. Divine Beatrix's eyes rested first on Anora, then Fergus, and then on him. He wasn't sure what she saw, but it seemed to amuse her.

"I apologize for the deception, but...you did see how quickly the crowd got notice." She spoke again, eyes on Anora and Fergus as they righted themselves; "In these times, it was better that I assumed my arrival was already known by the uninvited, and took steps to avoid a scene..." her eyes shifted to him, grey and as if made from iron; "...or worse."

"Understandable." He nodded, giving her not an inch of ground. The accusation was veiled, but not enough so that he was blind to it. But two could play at this; "The Emperor would have been dismayed if this chance for peace had gone awry."

Anora, to her credit, seemed to catch on.

"Divine, this is Belisarius Cecium, General of the Tamrielan Empire." She added the last bit as if afraid it would be left unspoken; "His forces relieved Denerim during the Darkspawn siege, and have worked tirelessly to eradicate the remaining Darkspawn."

"I see." Beatrix - and he tired of referring to a mortal woman as 'Divine' - said, eyes locked on his. It gave some rather unpleasant reminders of the scriptorium, when he'd been barely a brat; "It is well to finally meet you, General."

"Likewise, your Grace." Still, there _was_ nothing against him being polite.

"I hear you've been quite busy, in this land." He couldn't tell if it was praise or accusation in her voice; "Tell me, why have you come here? Why come across the seas to Thedas?"

"The Emperor desired relations with the peoples of Thedas." It wasn't a lie, either; "The original intent was the eradication of the Darkspawn, to prevent that in the future they might spread to Tamriel. The situation has, however, changed. With the reception Ferelden has granted us, the Empire has decided to establish permanent relations with this kingdom."

"And the Anderfels, as I hear it?"

"The Anderfels fall under the jurisdiction of General Tullus' Tenth Legion, your Grace." Again, it was not a lie; "I'm afraid my mandate extends only to Ferelden and her borders."

"And, if you would not mind the curiosity of an old woman, General..." She was trying to play him, he knew it. On the other hand, it was hard not to admire the insistence of such an old mind. Sharper than most that shared its age, he suspected; "What might that mandate entail?"

"To safeguard and uphold the sovereignty of Ferelden until such a time that her armed forces are capable of such unaided." Once more, the easiest answers were so, because they did not require him to lie. As well, Anora and Fergus would have suspected if he had started giving answers unfamiliar to them; "The Empire wants to nurture positive relationships, not take over."

"And yet, already there is an Imperial in the Anderfels, proclaimed Andraste reborn." Beatrix's voice hardened; "General, you cannot think me so naïve that I would look at such open proclamations of uprising against the Chantry, and such heresy as proclaiming the Maker dead, and not understand what your Emperor plans. Offer me at least the respect of not taking me for a fool. And please, do not drag this out with convoluted stories, my visit can only last as long as the sermon."

"Your Grace, the General doesn't have authority over...-" Fergus stepped in, though Belisarius wished he hadn't.

"Your Highness, your trust in this man and his sovereign is in good faith, but will bare no fruit that isn't rotten and tastes of deceit." The Divine retorted, cutting off _the King_. That on its own would have had most people sent to the gibbets, not to mention that she dared berate him. Belisarius just felt his toes curling on the insides of his boots, wishing Fergus would not speak on his behalf, appreciated though the gesture was.

"Your Grace, my men have bled and died for the safety of strangers, and so have the men of the Tenth." He was tempted to throw manners to the wind, he really, really was; "My mandate... My Emperor would never allow such treason. The Empire has neither the need nor desire to conquer lands where it is unwanted. We have come only as friends, asked for naught but the food needed to sustain the troops, and fought battles that weren't ours to fight. I lost dozens of men in the woods these past few months, to Maleficarum that the _Chantry's_ Templars should have disposed of. _Good men_ , that were slaughtered because the Chantry failed to do its job."

"You mean the Templars that were butchered by demons in the Circle, or the Templars who gave their lives before the gates of Denerim _before_ your people showed up to claim victory?" A nerve had been struck; "Oh General, did you think that just because I reside in Val Royeaux, that I did not know the plights of my children all across the land?"

"I did not say that"

"A great many are the things you haven't said, to me nor to the nation that hosts you, I suspect." Beatrix frowned; "You won't offer me the courtesy of honesty, General, but I will with you. If you wish to avoid an Exalted March to come upon the Anders, and now Ferelden, you will leave these lands. Already your mages and priests have sown too much corruption and doubt of Andraste's teachings. No more."

"Your Grace." Anora actually stepped in front of the elderly woman, a move that seemed to shock the Queen herself as much as it did the Divine; "General Belisarius and his people helped us when Orlais would not. He's pledged to help our people, his men have already given us so much. Ideas, knowledge of the world beyond Thedas...Surely, surely that can't all be heretical?"

"My child, your heart is in the right place, but your trust was deceived the moment you gave it to this man's liege." Beatrix said, her words stern yet saddened at once. Belisarius kept his silence, foul words lying in wait at the tip of his tongue. This was for the rulers of Ferelden to decide. If the Legion's presence was in the end unwanted, it rendered his mandate void. It would mean the lives of his men would be spared from fighting an Orlesian invasion, but...his conscience rebelled against leaving the people of Ferelden to thralldom under Orlais; "A liege who has now, already, corrupted the very heart of the Anderfels, and turned the minds of its king and princess to believe Andraste returned in the form of a soldier loyal to the Empire. There are coincidences, and then there are plots to spread heresy and chaos, and in the end, conquest."

"I...forgive me, Divine, but...I cannot in good conscience believe that." It was Fergus who spoke up now, more hesitant than his wife, but then he seemed far more collected too; "My brother is wed to a princess of the Empire, and I trust her implicitly when she tells me the Empire has no want to take Ferelden as anything but an ally."

"I see." Beatrix nodded; "I see. I had hoped maybe...That maybe it was not yet too late, but if the Empire has already sunk this deeply into Ferelden..." she stopped before Belisarius. He was shocked to find her eyes spilled tears, for her voice betrayed none of her emotions now; "I will pray for your change of hearts, that Ferelden may yet be saved."

"We shall pray as well, your Grace." Anora offered, perhaps hoping for some reconciliation; "Maker willing, peace will reign for long years yet to come."

" _Quod si volens genitor."_ Divine Beatrix said, and he struggled to process the words, knowing by now they were similar enough to Colovian that he could have them translated. She paused, met at the door by the same, veiled woman who had escorted them in; "Maker watch over you, Majesties."

Hours later, when he returned to his office, Belisarius found his mind in a dark place. Anora and Fergus had both been left in obvious, emotional turmoil after the visit, and the warnings that were really just simple threats. He'd decided to give them space, lest his own presence be enough that they buckled to the old crone's demands.

His door was locked, just as he had left it. In all honesty he'd half feared to find it broken down, or maybe the lock burned out or something alike, in his absence. The guards were still there, at least, but still...There'd been something uncanny about the veiled woman escorting the Divin- the _old woman_ around.

"Bad evening, General?"

"That obvious?" he sighed, allowing for the breach of regulations, if it even was so. Honestly, he knew he kept a less-than tight ship when it came to what his men could get away with. But, in a place as foreign as Ferelden, so far from home, the men could not always be expected to be at their very best; "It's nothing, soldier. There...hasn't been anyone here, while I was gone?"

"No one, General." The guard, an Orc, showed fangs with his smile; "Quiet as the grave."

"Good." Well, at least there was that. Honestly, had his paranoia gotten the better of him for once? Still, it always seemed the more prudent choice to take precautions. Better safe than sorry, as they said. His predecessor always said that, almost like a mantra, really. It didn't stop a Thalmor battlemage from incinerating him at the Red Ring, of course, but then, what would? "No couriers either?"

"Not a soul, sir." The guard reassured him, perhaps sensing his unease as Belisarius slid in the key; "Should I send for something to eat, General? Drink?"

"No, I...no, it's fine." He shook his head; "I think I'll just head to bed early."

It was an infinitesimal addition to the traction of the door when he opened it. There was the creaking of the wooden door, covering up the sound of a series of tiny, soft clicking noises, and something that seemed to hiss like a cat within.

"Do you... _smell_ somethi-"

The explosion could be felt throughout the city.


	16. The Message

**This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but I figured it gets the point across well enough. Especially because the next segment was going to be so damn long it'd make the chapter way too long in turn.**

 **Oh, and I really liked all the comments about how people hope Belisarius is okay. It's nice when complete OC's become liked by you guys :)**

* * *

 **The Message**

* * *

The valley known as Gherlen's Pass had once been a simple, unassuming dip in the landscape, before the Frostbacks escaped sight, and with Orzammar yet still some distance ahead.

Once, it was little but grasses and sparse trees this close to the mountains. Mostly, pine and spruce had dominated the hillsides, with the only leaf-bearing vegetation coming in the form of berry bushes that grew in their shades. Up on the hills, even the grass gave way for mosses, and to the local huntsmen, the landscape had been a blissful one, spared the worst of the Blight.

The nearby hamlets had felt little of the Blight's horrors, much to their probable relief, though now they underwent a different kind of trial, this one far less destructive in nature than a horde of Darkspawn scorching the countryside would have been.

Cauthrien paused where she stood, surveying the fortifications from atop a small hill near the mouth of the valley. The warmth of the Spring sun made her appreciate having shed the heavy cloak she'd worn during winder, much more at ease in a light uniform, hardly the heavy steel she'd worn during King Fergus' coronation. _And yet, it seemed as if the very fact we now have a king, was just...passed over. So much more is at risk now, a coronation and a royal marriage seems almost trivial in comparison._

A messenger had arrived from Denerim, barely an hour ago, with the news of the explosion that had wiped away General Belisarius' quarters, and nearly the man himself. Cauthrien had walked out of her tent before the man had even finished, allowing him only the time needed to confirm that the old man was indeed still alive, if at death's door.

She felt nauseous with anger, that even after everything that man and his soldiers had done for them, someone would attempt something so callous as to take his life. It was a sort of rage she'd not felt often, and not since she'd lost her mentor in Loghain, and then to find out that Orlais had withdrawn not just their Chevaliers from the border, but the Grey Wardens too. And now, she was left with this, a situation far beyond her capabilities, and a General she'd almost come to view as a replacement for Loghain, only to have him blown away.

And, by who? Maker's Breath, who would try to kill the man responsible for the defense of their country? It made less sense with every breath she thought about it, wracking her mind for an answer. A terrible suspicion gnawed at the back of her skull, the knowledge that the attack had come at the same time as the Divine's visit.

But, no. There was no way the Divine could be implicated in something so crude, callous and immoral. She was to be above the politics of nations, above which country warred with which, and seek only harmony amongst the Maker's children. Wasn't she?

And yet, still the doubt gnawed at her. What if she _was_ implicated? No matter her holiness, Divine Beatrix _was_ human, in the end. She would be under all the same kinds of stress, wouldn't she? What if she _had_ been implicated? What would it mean, if the defender of Ferelden was attempted murdered by the Divine of the Chantry?

She felt sick, and drew in air in an attempt to keep down the bile. The more she thought about it, the more likely it was that the Divine _was_ involved in this. Gaspard was at their doorstep, breathing down their necks with twenty thousand men, poised to strike, and then the Divine visits Denerim. The same night, Belisarius was almost killed on the spot by a lyrium blasting charge. Who else could have such resources, and care so little whether or not anyone suspected?

Gaspard was too smart for that, if she ever had to give the man any sort of credit. He'd have had a hired knife cut the General's throat, not blow his quarters up with enough lyrium to supply the Circle for months. Everything about this _reeked_ of the Chantry's involvement, and yet the notion was so abhorrent to her it felt as if she'd hit a wall, head-first.

Far more terrifying too, was the fears of what could happen if the notion of the Chantry being behind this became spread amongst the populace. It was little secret that the people had begun to view the Empire in much the same light as they did the Grey Wardens; as saviors, selfless protectors that shed their own blood to keep them safe, no matter how small or remote the hamlet.

What would happen, if the Chantry was known to have tried killing their leader?

"General." She turned, half away in a trance of anger and something akin to grief, when one of Belisarius' men approached her. She could never fault their professionalism, nor the enthusiasm with which they worked. She'd often wondered, was this what a true soldier looked like, and had the rest of them simply been playing pretend all along? They even worked in full armor, something inconceivable to most Fereldan soldiers. Red lines ringed the man's eyes, betraying the impact with which news of their General's situation had struck.

"...yes?" She blinked away what felt like tears, born more of fury than anything else. The legionary did not react to it, instead drawing in a breath himself. It was so easy to forget, in her own state, that the Imperials were far harder struck by this than she had any right to be. She already knew that to the soldiers of each Legion, their general was something akin to a father-figure, just another thing the Fereldan army had never experienced. There was a kind of loyalty there that almost went beyond belief; "What is it, soldier?"

"A rider from Jader came to the forward outposts half an hour ago." A piece of parchment was in the soldier's hand, she noticed, even as he held it forward; "None of the Fereldan soldiers here can read. We should know of its contents, in case it's meant for Denerim."

"He didn't say?"

She accepted the letter, snapping open the wax-seal. It wasn't one she recognized. She held her breath, reading the words within. She was only halfway through when it felt like her heart was about to follow her breath;

"This...this is going to Denerim. Get a horse, the fastest we have!"

* * *

Of the multitude of facilities the Legion has constructed in the ruins of Denerim's northern half, a hospital was among them. In its crude state, it was little more than a rock and timber hospice, but with medics from the Legion tending to wounded and sick alike.

Now, half a dozen beds were taken up by burn victims, and those who had been struck by flying debris from the explosion. An additional cruelty visited upon the people whose only fault it was to be around, was lyrium poisoning from the explosion. The Legion's medics had no experience with the substance, and could only do so much when the magical minerals started corroding the bodies of those affected.

Unsurprisingly, the building echoed with screams.

It was a testament to their experience with the latter, however, that the medics did not break down from the trauma of simply being around people, who screamed as their bodies burned them alive from within. Some had stopped their work, at first, simply to watch in horror as skin turned necrotic, and every orifice would stream with ichorish blood and puss.

Anora had never seen lyrium poisoning before, but even before she'd been thus informed, she knew it was not supposed to be this...extreme. She tried her best to keep composure, and maintain a mask of calm confidence. Her husband was doing a markedly better job of it, keeping pace with her in spite of his shattered ankle when they made the rounds.

Belisarius had been secluded from the rest, but only by the grace of a thin curtain that hid him from view, and the world from him. She felt as if her heart stopped when they came 'round it, and saw the damages, even after the medics had done everything they could.

There was not a strand of hair on his head, scorched away by the same heat that had rendered the left side of his face blackened and cracked. It was like meat that had been left too long over a fire, now charred and with cracks in the black. The eye that had been there, wasn't anymore, burnt out by the searing fires of ignited lyrium.

Most of his body was covered in thick layers of poultice-soaked cloths, not a bit of skin that had not been too harshly affected by the fires. Bits and scraps of metal from his armor had been imbedded into his flesh and bones, with one shin guard having nearly taken off his right foot. It was the same armor that had saved his life, however, when he'd been thrown through the barracks behind his office. Although she wasn't sure how it had spared him the lyrium poisoning so many of his men, and commoners who did business with them now suffered from.

"Maker's mercy..." Fergus hissed under his breath; "Look what they've done to him!"

"Is he..." Anora started, grabbing the arm of a passing medic. The man's deep brows and fair complexion marked him as one of the Nords, though quite frankly he could have been a Qunari for all she cared right now; "...is he going to make it?"

The moment's silence was enough for her to nearly repeat the question, demanding an answer from a man who'd never seen lyrium before.

"We're...hopeful." the answer did not inspire the same in her; "We're doing our best to keep him stable, for the moment. If not...if not for the damned dwarves and their expedition, we'd have had actual healers here. We're...not used to this kind of magically induced trauma."

" _Oh please_ , I...I had worse, during the war." She could have fainted where she stood, when a cracked, weakened chuckle came from the bedridden officer. Turning around to look did make her more optimistic, as blood and puss now seeped from freshly opened cracks in Belisarius' face. The red and yellow was a macabre contrast to the blackened skin and flesh. His one eye rolled around in its socket, trying to take in the new surroundings without moving his head; "...I think. _Headache_...feels about the same as then, though."

"Sweet Mara..." the medic clasped a hand over his heart; "General, by all the gods..."

Belisarius sighed and blinked, about the only actions he could undertake at present, and yet to Anora it felt like the Maker himself had reached down to perform a miracle, to let him simply do that much. She kept those thoughts to herself, knowing he'd likely either be annoyed, or make a joke on her behalf.

"...what... _happened_?" the General asked, eye rolling downwards, then up and then around in its socket; "I feel like I've lost vision in my right eye, and...something's on my face. Gauze?"

"...yes." no one argued when the medic lied, Anora knowing it'd be better than trying to explain what they were looking at; "You were caught in the blast of a lyrium-powered explosion, most likely a device set to detonate when you opened the door. Extensive burn damage, blunt trauma to head, lower torso, both legs. Multiple broken bones, deep gash in the right foot and a bruised lung..."

"...I was wrong." Anora leaned forward when Belisarius spoke, his voice more of a hiss than proper speech. She held her breath, torn with a concern and fear for his life she'd never expected to feel. What was left of the old General breathed in, a wheezing sound that made her nerves itch; "This is... _worse_ than I got in the war... _then_." He coughed, and specks of blood splattered the upper bandages on his torso; " _...damn it_ , I...should have seen it coming..."

Considering she herself was still struggling to come to terms with the implications of the attack, Anora knew she was in no position to agree with him. She'd never...she'd never thought something like that could happen, _would_ happen with the involvement of a Divine.

Because in the days that had now gone by since the explosion, she'd been trying to understand what had happened, and why it had happened when it did. The Divine had been with them all the time, but what of the younger woman, her attaché or aide of whatever she truly was? She'd disappeared one moment, and then suddenly reappeared the next.

"None of us could have foreseen this." Fergus sighed, rubbing at his face; "And whomever set the trap, they were long gone when it...went off."

"I under... _underestimated_ her, the Chantry..." A strange mixture of regret and sardonic amusement was behind his words, weak as they were when passing broken and cracked lips; "I was a threat. _Am_ a threat."

"You can't..." Fergus stopped himself, breathing deeply before he continued; "We can't say yet if the Chantry was behind this."

"I... _sent_ a man, after the clerk you saw, a month ago." Anora went quiet, as did her husband. Belisarius had been there? "He...was supposed to silence the clerk, if he'd...start speaking of war... _Not_ my finest plan to date. And...someone must have caught him."

"...what do you mean?" Anora whispered, having already shooed the medic away; "Why would you send someone after a Chantry representative?"

She felt stupid for even asking, especially now that his mistrust of the Chantry seemed far too justified.

"To the Chantry, we're a threat." If there was pride in his voice, she couldn't hear it; "I suspected they...would back an invasion, on the pretense of an Exalted March...If it couldn't be avoided, I at least wanted more...more _time_...Stendarr, I _need_ more time."

"We'll get...-" Fergus started, stopping himself at the sound of running feet. Anora too, paused and turned, seeing one of the Legion's centurions running down the corridors of beds, papers in hand; "...what now?"

"Ur- _urgent_ message, your Majesties." The man heaved for air, handing over the parchment. It bore a seal that had been broken, but one that Anora recognized on the spot. It was the seal of the House of Chalons; "We...a rider from Jader...came to our forward outposts with...with this message. General Cauthrien she...she decided you should see it as quickly as..." the officer froze where he stood, eyes now finally on his superior in the bed before him; "Mara's Mercy..."

"Centurion... _Pullo_ , yes?" Belisarius coughed, blood seeping from the cracks around his mouth. The Centurion in question looked ready to take a knee, legs buckling; "Stand... _at attention_ , officer."

"Gen... _General_ , I..." the man swallowed, righting himself as best he could; "Forgive me, General. We heard of the attack, but..."

"I look like a right fright, I suppose, yes..." the attempt at a smile was enough that Belisarius trembled with the agony it caused; "It's good that you're here, I wanted...I _want_ a report on the preparations at the Pass."

"We're...on schedule, General." The Centurion nodded, breathing in to calm himself. It was only because of the pause in speech that Anora realized she'd started shutting out the screams of the hospital's other occupants, a realization that made her guts churn; "General Cauthrien has ensured the men work at the best effectiveness we could hope for, given the circumstances. She's levied additional hands from the nearby villages, and...and made an effort to pair us with the Fereldan soldiers."

" _Good_." There was regret the instant Belisarius tried to nod his head, and the bindings around his neck started gaining color; "Damn it...Fine, then..." He paused and turned his eye towards Anora; "What's the message say, then?"

She winced, having completely forgotten about the message now in her own, clenched hands. In her own defense, Anora felt she could be excused when a man who should by all accounts be _dead_ from what he'd been through, was still going about giving orders and demanding reports. If not for the fact that several soldiers of the Legion were dying meters away from her, she'd question if Imperials were even human.

"It's...the seal is of the House of Chalons, which means it's probably from Gaspard." She opened it as she spoke, eyes roving over the few, hurriedly scrippled lines within. Clearly, it was a work of haste, not particular consideration; "He's heard of the attack, and offers his condolences."

"Likely." Fergus scoffed.

"What else?"

"He requests a meeting." Anora found the words hard to speak, alien as the notion was; "...and repeats that he was ignorant of the attack."

"Of course he does." Her husband shook his head. Anora frowned, not blind to where Fergus was coming from. All his life, he'd grown up with the positives of the Chantry only, and never exposed to the political machinations of its leadership. But, as Queen of Ferelden, she'd been dealing with the Chantry's constant attempts at land-grabbing for years, and seen how much power the Revered Mothers could wield, when they so chose. He found it harder than she did, to fathom the Divine herself being involved in assassinations; "And I suppose he'd like the meeting in Denerim, with his full honor guard of a thousand Chevaliers?"

"He doesn't say." She put the letter in his hands, allowing him to read it through himself; "The point is moot though, we can't let him see you in this state."

"He'll view refusal as a slight on his honor, though." Fergus sighed; "And take it as his cue to invade, that we're scared of even meeting him."

" _Damned_...if we do, and don't, then?" Belisarius scoffed. He paused, eye closed for long enough that Anora started wondering if he'd slipped into unconsciousness right then and there. When he opened his eye again, he averted his look from theirs; "Find the illusionists. I need to send a request to Cyrodiil."


	17. A Meeting of Emperors

**Another chapter, short like the last one I'll admit but on the other hand out a lot faster than if I'd made it 6k words. I'm wondering if this might not actually be a good idea for updates. Short enough to keep focus on one thing, and out fast enough that I might have a shot at compensating for my absence during finals.**

 **By the title alone, I think you can guess who's about to have an apperance in the story.**

* * *

 **A Meeting of Emperors**

* * *

Jader

It was a pleasant sight, with its rolling hills and the smell of the sea in the wind. Pine, spruce and elms took up most of the countryside that wasn't already blanketed in fields of potatoes, wheat and barley. Much like the nation east of the Frostbacks, the soil of Jader had always been much more fertile than what most of Orlais could otherwise offer.

Jader had grown as a result of this surplus, being able to sell of its produce to cities like Halamshiral and Lydes. What had been a small, but bustling town at the time of Emperor Florian, had under Celene grown to be a town of tens of thousands of people, and a bustling trading hub that connected not just Ferelden and Orlais, but as well offered the merchants of the Free Marches a link to the southern hinterlands, without having to go through the ports of Val Royeaux or Velun.

Gaspard could appreciate that, and knew better than to let arrogance blind him to the good Celene had done for their country. She had, however, been far too keen on making their people soft, when he knew such a weakness would see Nevarra and the Free Marches pounce on their outer territories like wild dogs would a scrap of leftover meat. Celene had done much good for Orlais, that was true, but she had also committed crimes, against both the Game, and the people.

When he had caught her forces, after the burning of Halamshiral's Alienage, finally he had held in his hands the power to end the civil war that had torn their country apart. On a personal level, one he neither could nor would share with those beneath him, he had greatly disagreed with the purge of the elves. Celene had never had a mind for military aspects of how to rule, and completely disregarded the elves as the assets they could have been.

But he had not disregarded their potential. Where Celene had used Briala to win the favor of the Dalish, he had made far greater strides with those who had survived her mass slaughters in Halamshiral. He had reinstated a decree that had not sounded in Orlais since the Third Blight. Service, no matter your race, would now guarantee citizenship, and carry on into the family's descendants. Many saw it as the move of a soft-hearted man, others as signs that he had become a radical reformist. But some, and these were the keener minds, recognized what he had done when thousands of elves had streamed to his army, pledging eyes and hands sharper than any human's, and skills with bow that a man would need years of training to outmatch.

Many of Celene's supporters viewed him as a mere brute. A soldier who only knew how to rule at the tip of a blade. Often, he allowed them to maintain this notion, to never correct his enemies when they were digging their own graves. Had Celene never outmaneuvered him from the start, and taken the throne for herself, he would have had her at his side to council and advice, and should he never have had children, she would take the seat once he left for the Maker's side.

Fate, however, always seemed to have a strange sense of humor. Now, his scheming cousin was dead, and he was left with the reins of Orlais, a rather untamable mount. But, once he'd crossed the bridge of reclaiming what was his by birth, there had been no turning back. They'd both known that. As for her handmaiden and spymaster, the elf Briala, he was as of yet uncertain of what to do with her.

But now, he had more pressing concerns than those of an elf locked up in Halamshiral. The nobles upon whom he relied for support wanted their holdings in Ferelden back, and each day that went by without the Lion's banner flying atop Fort Drakon, they chomped ever harder at the bit. How many of them, he wondered, had truly seen what war did to the common folk? How many had seen what atrocities passing armies would visit upon the peasantry? How many had seen the fires of entire hamlets, torched for some perceived slight upon the honor of a Chevalier?

How many of them cared? Honor had a way of disappearing from even the most highborn of minds when loot and plunder was on offer, and he knew both were spoils of war for the conquering Chevalier, once Ferelden was taken by military might once more.

"Damn the nobles..." he sighed, tapping a finger on the pommel of his sword. It was, like the rest of his armor, an exquisite piece of Nevarran steel that had been crafted by the same smiths plying their trade with the Penthaghast Families. A light breeze rolled over the hills, the grasslands playing like waves of the ocean. In different times, the peasants and farmers would have put their livestock here, to grow fat and full. Now, however, his soldiers were harvesting the grass for the army's horses. He'd have to recompense the peasantry somehow, he knew that much. Much of the army _was_ peasantry, levied and armed by their lords and dukes and barons, and the risk would have been far greater, had he started this campaign earlier in the year, when they would seed the fields, or later in summer when the harvest was at the door.

A winter campaign into Ferelden would have been a far greater logistical nightmare, however, than most of his supposed advisers seemed to realize. Not only would Gherlen's Pass have been neigh-unpassable with heavy snows, but the natives would know how to starve his army out. The last time Orlais had ruled Ferelden, they underestimated the tenacity and ingenuity of the dog lords. This time, he would make no such mistake.

It was, however, not the Fereldans he worried about. The Blight had devastated their armies, wrecked their infrastructure and emptied their villages and towns of a great deal of able-bodied men. No, the true threat was much more likely to be this new unknown, the so-called Legion that had arrived during the battle of Denerim. If the rumors were to be believed, and he was not so self-assured as to dismiss them, they had arrived in flying ships, casting fire from the skies. An exaggerated tale, no doubt, but most still held within them some truth. It was an irritant, either way, the uncertainty of what the Legion truly had to throw at them. Was it a grand navy? Siege engines capable of throwing firepots so far, they seemed to come from the very skies?

He didn't know, and what worried him even more was how it seemed as if every spy he sent into the lowlands would simply...vanish. There was never a word back from any who made it as far as the central Bannorns. In the end it had been a matter of whether he was prepared to exhaust what few, truly loyal agents he retained, or to trust in what information he'd already gathered from merchants and sellswords passing through on the way to the Free Marches.

If the conquest of Ferelden was to be as quickly over as possible, and with few enough lives lost that he could justify it to the Chantry, the Legion's presence was a hindrance, and one he needed gone. Still, he found the attempt at killing their general to be...distasteful. It went against his sense of what could be called chivalry, even as he knew few within the Chevaliers truly shared such a notion. There was what had to be done, and there was callous disregard for the lives of men. A lyrium blasting charge...he knew scant details of the results, but was more than keenly aware of the wounds such a weapon would inflict upon even those untouched by the blast itself.

If the Divine was willing to sanction such strikes...he was uncomfortable with how far she could be made to go. The question was, whether it had been Divine Beatrix's own hand steering the matter, or someone in the background, taking advantage of her ailing senses.

Either way, he had to resolve the situation before moving on Ferelden. Without the Legion, what remained of the Fereldan army wouldn't be capable of opposing his forces. This time, the rule in Ferelden would not be one of fear or oppression. Maker willing, in time perhaps the dog lords would come to wish for full annexation. It was a small hope, a fool's hope, but a hope he allowed to live on nonetheless. Now, he just awaited the response from Denerim.

The problem, of course, was whether or not their General was capable of such a meeting, or-

The air tore itself apart before him, the grasses underneath wilting and dying. Gaspard leapt back, hand now fully closed around the handle of his sword, the blade drawn before he'd even come to rest. His feet squared, he watched the phenomenon before him. For a moment that seemed to stretch, nothing happened bar its continued presence, a physically manifested shimmering of air that seemed almost like sand-blown glass to peer through.

Then, slowly, it materialized. At first he could barely make out the details, bar that it was a man. Slowly, more and more he could tell apart what was man and what was clothes. It was, he realized, some sort of apparition, though he could tell little else but that. Finally, the man within the haze became as if of flesh and blood before him, yet remained ethereal and the color of glass. Was this a ghost, or a trick of magic?

"Gaspard De Chalons?" He had almost, in truth, expected the apparition's voice to boom or come forth like a whispering wind. Instead, it was as normal as his own, and a blind man would have been unable to tell the difference between real man, and the spectre before him.

"Who are you, Spectre, to seek me out?" he relaxed his stance a little. He would have taken the Spectre for some sort of magical assassin, if not for the fact that it seemed an old, well-dressed man. That, of course, could as well be a foil over his eyes. He was unsure if the spectre had known him to be alone in the hills, or if this was complete happenstance.

"I am Titus Mede the Second." He did not know the name, but recognized that it belonged to a man of import. Of course, this too might just as well be a ploy, to present a noble name he had no knowledge of; "I am the Emperor of Tamriel, and mine are the soldiers now protecting Ferelden from your incursion."

"...how can I know this is not some trick?" It seemed too strange, almost worthy of bard's tale, for one Emperor to seek another out ere the first of battles between nations; "That you are real, and truly whom you claim to be?"

"The messenger you sent to Ferelden bore a letter that did indeed reach its intended hands." The spectral man continued, leaving Gaspard uncertain of whether it was an answer or he was being brushed off; "However, as I learned of your desire for a meeting, it struck me that a mere general would not provide suitable response. I decided it was for the better if I handled this in person, if somewhat remotely."

"So you are not here, in Thedas?" Gaspard sheathed his sword, more curious than wary now. The old man regarded him with a silent stare, one he could not entirely read through the foreign spell; "This is some sort of apparition, yes?"

"It is, and quite useful for maintaining communications with my forces in Thedas." The other Emperor spoke with little emotion, neither anger nor ease of heart; "I hear you disavow the attempt at my subject's life?"

"I do not kill my enemies in arms, lest they stand before me, armed and aware." He ignored the slight that was there mere assumption, understanding enough of his apparent counterpart's situation. Of course he was suspect, he himself would have held the same views had he been in the shoes of this older regent; "I did not know of it either, ere it occurred."

"...I suppose it doesn't matter." Titus Mede relented, likely unwilling to believe him on his word of honor, Gaspard as unknown to him as he was to Gaspard; "Your intentions to take control of Ferelden will cease. The people of that nation are under my protection, and I have mandated Belisarius to keep it free of your dominion."

"I am aware that in the past, Orlais was unkind to the people of the valley, but we...-"

"Gaspard De Chalons, did I error in making you assume this a negotiation?" a chill crept from the apparition, enough to make him step back, the cold biting at his skin, killing the grass around it now; "My Empire has no need of conflict with yours, but I will not allow your presence in Ferelden. Orlais is a lion in a garden of dogs, but I am the _dragon_ that will drag you upon the mountain and devour whatever forces you send upon those whom I protect. The Legion will burn your cities and drown your fields in the blood of your soldiers. Should you come upon Ferelden, or the Anderfels, arms in hand, this is the fate that awaits you, and your Empire. Do not soak the ground with the blood of men, for the sake of your own desire for conquest and glory, it will gain you _nothing_."

At the end, real anger had seeped into the voice of Titus Mede, and yet still for all the heat, his voice remained cold as before. Gaspard was not too arrogant to confess to himself that the visage, and its words, unnerved him if but slightly. But too much was at stake now, and it was the well-being of his people against that of foreigners.

It was the military might he knew he possessed, against the boasts of a spectral Emperor across the seas.

"Pull your men from Ferelden, Emperor Mede of Tamriel." He spoke calmly and respectfully, taking great care to remain as clear in voice as the man before him. If he faltered here, it would mean the loss of his support, and the end of his reign ere an heir was made, and chaos for Orlais; "I will take Ferelden, for the good of both its people and my own. If you wish to avoid needless bloodshed, pull out your soldiers and surrender the nation to me. I will visit no vengeance upon its people, I swear upon the Prophet's pyre, but if I come into Ferelden, and your soldiers yet remain, I will have no choice but to put them to death."

The spectre watched him, a small, grim smile creasing its lips. Gaspard's fingers once more tapped the pommel of his blade, wondering what he might have said that caused this ethereal visage to smile. What had he given away, to give the ghost of a man before him, a reason for satisfaction?

" _If_ "

It was a single word, and yet to Gaspard it carried more weight than it should have, even as the apparition dissolved into thin air, leaving only the dead grass whereupon it had stood. _If_ he came into Ferelden? Was this Emperor truly so confident in the strength of his men, that he dared so openly challenge Orlais? Or was it a bluff, like with Wicked Grace, to make him think the Empire's presence in Ferelden stronger than it was?

Either way, it would not change the events to come. Invading Ferelden, and taking it in person, would be the most merciful of actions he could visit upon its people. If he would not, the nobles would cease their support of him, and throw Orlais into chaos. And if he would not, then the Chantry would for the sake of cleansing the lowlands of the heresy it saw there. And while he understood that indeed there was heresy afoot, for speech of the Maker's death and his Bride's return in the body of an Imperial was about as black and dire as speech could be, he did not like the notion of turning an Exalted March upon a people that had only clung to what saviors were it given.

Damn that paranoid bastard Loghain Mac Tir. It was not that he had been wrong about Orlais' desires of retaking his country, but his defiance of aid and arms offered in good faith had allowed for the nobles of Orlais to demand their return. And it had made Ferelden weak enough that, in the end, they had chosen heresy over death.

If the Divine intended to apply the same zealousness to those who had been led astray as she might have now done to those who, be it intentional or not, had led them astray, he could not afford to wait for her to call for an Exalted March. It was uncertain who would even answer such a call, but those who did would have justification for acts that were beneath even the most lowly of footmen.

He would give this Emperor a few days, a week at most, to withdraw his men from Ferelden. What followed after that, would be on the hands of these foreigners, even if the blood spilled would be by his. Gaspard sighed, resignation heavy on his mind and heart. He'd seen enough death already, enough homes put to the torch and enough innocents cut down by those who claimed to stand for all that was good.

What the lords in their estates and mansions often seemed to forget, was that war was not akin to the stuff of ballads. It was not some noble quest for honor or glory, nor was it fought with any kind of _élan_. It was chaos at the best of times, and terror at the worst. He'd seen what the Rebellion in Ferelden had done to those that returned, those soldiers who seemed to stare a thousand miles away. Men who stared at their hands, rubbing as if to remove a stain that was not there.

He closed his eyes against the setting sun, allowing himself a moment's peace. The warm winds blew across his face, the longer strands of hairs in his moustache dancing softly in tune. This was peace, and quiet, and it was what Orlais meant, in his heart. Humming to himself, the Emperor glanced eastwards, where the Frostbacks marked the end of Orlais, and the start of Ferelden;

" _Les dés sont jetés..._ "

* * *

 **Gaspard's final words, to those who do not speak french, are the immortal words of Gaius Julius as he crossed the Rubicon; "The die is cast"**


	18. Operation 'Dagon'

**Now, here's a chapter I've been looking forward to since creating Belisarius.**

 **Also I'm using a character from Inquisition in this chapter. A bonus point to whomever can recognize him ;)**

* * *

 **Operation Dagon**

* * *

Belisarius did his best not to move too much, his every muscle screaming with agony at the slightest increase in his breathing. The very act of taking in air meant his chest would expand, and brought with it a rictus of shock and agony, as if he was once more seared with flames. He could feel the cracked ribs, far more easily than he'd have liked, and wondered if they had protruded from his chest when they'd found him. He knew, of course, that the medics were reluctant to reveal to him just how bad his condition was. He was aware of his face not being bound in gauze. The strange tension he'd felt before, as well as the pain and the sensation of a liquid, was his skin and flesh cracking open, spilling out Divines-knew-what.

The Emperor had granted his request to replace him in the meeting with Gaspard, though he was currently ignorant of whether it was going to achieve anything. But still, if anyone could make the Orlesian Emperor back down, it would be Tamriel's own. Anora and Fergus had remained at his bedside, a situation he'd frankly never thought to find himself - or them - in. Officers came and went, sent away again with the briefest and most whispered commands he'd ever given.

A flash of ethereal blue appeared before the bed, prompting those nearest to step back with haste. It was a matter of decorum more than anything else, for those still present knew whom to expect in the spell's visage. The Emperor appeared, and once more Belisarius regretted his inability to kneel before his sovereign. It was shameful, really, to add such lack of deference to his failure at commanding his own men from the front.

"Ah, good. You're all still here." The Emperor smiled, nodding to those present, before turning his eyes to Belisarius; "Your instincts have dulled little in your age, General. You were right in your request that I should take your place at the meeting."

"Did...it _work_ , then?" he forced out the words, feeling once more as something wet spread across his face. Damn the fates that he'd sent all the healers with Queen Sorella's expedition. She'd damn well better keep to her end of the bargain, when all was said and done.

"I'm afraid not." He felt his heart sink at the regret in his liege's voice; "Gaspard remains determined to take Ferelden, claiming it the kindest of options. He wants the Legion out of Ferelden, and your peaceful surrender, Majesties."

"Son of a..." Fergus caught himself before he swore in present company. Running a hand through his hair, the young king scowled instead, drawing in a breath; "He has to know we'd never accept. Ferelden was occupied by Orlais once, and it shall remain a one-time event."

"The Legion remains purely at your wish." The Emperor continued; "As I understand it, its presence brings the risk of the Chantry declaring something of a holy war against you."

"And with the Legion gone, we're assured of invasion, with little hope of fighting them off." Anora stated what they all knew; "I must request the continued presence of your soldiers, Titus."

"You shall have it." The Emperor nodded, turning to Belisarius again; "Considering the new situation, General, I am expanding your mandate. Should you find it required, you may perform pre-emptive strikes on Orlesian soil, provided you do not linger upon their territory. I want no excuses to claim us an invading force."

"Yes, your Excellence." He held his Emperor's gaze, the only gesture of deference he could make in his current condition; "I have already planned for such a need."

"Good. See to it that the Legion survives this mess, General. I've a feeling we're only seeing the start of it." The Emperor nodded, turning to Anora and Fergus; "May your Maker watch over you, Majesties."

He then dissolved into thin air, leaving but a colder patch of the stone floor. Belisarius sighed, closing his eye for a moment. It gave him some peace, to know that their presence here was no longer in question. Whatever discussions had taken place during his unconsciousness, it seemed Ferelden intended to defy the Divine, which in and of itself was something of a remarkable milestone. Was there an equivalent in Tamriel, short of defying the Emperor?

"I...suppose this is it, then?" Anora's voice was hesitant when she spoke; "You have a plan then, General?"

"I do." He swallowed, clearing his mouth before breathing in, an exercise in pain; "And in the case of my untimely death, Cauthrien knows it too...Never thought it'd nearly become relevant for her to actually know it, though, but...contingencies, they are... _important_ , no?"

"...what is this plan, then?" Fergus asked.

Belisarius sighed, focusing his efforts on breathing. It was necessary, to minimize the pain it caused him. The bruised lung was bad enough, but the ribs only made things worse, especially when he couldn't even move enough of his body to start healing himself. There was a particularly sadistic sort of irony in that, being unable to heal yourself when it was really most needed.

"Gaspard's army is...in Jader." A cough interrupted him, and filled his mouth with the taste of cobber. He'd grown much too familiar with it now; "So, we burn Jader to the ground, and his army with it."

* * *

Two days went by since the meeting of Emperors.

On the night before the third, the moons were full and bathed the land around Jader in reddish-pale, cold light. Secunda and Masser seemed in competition to outshine one another. From above, the town seemed a gathering of occasional lights, torches that were lit or extinguished, or moved underneath overhangs and passageways. And even though it was spring, and warm enough for peasants to shed their heavy jackets and cloaks of wool, in the skies the air was still cold enough that the Aviatorii's breath came out as fog.

The wood of the airship creaked as the occasional wind gently buffeted it, otherwise silent in the night. They had folded up the sails miles before crossing above the border, and now simply floated on the wind, allowing their momentum, and the crew of the airship, to steer them forwards, closer and closer to their victims.

"We're approaching the target." The airship's captain came forward onto the deck to report, shifting on his feet as the faceless mask was turned on him. The design was less a means to intimidate, and more to make the piece as simple, and solid as possible. In the heights the Aviatorii could be expected to operate, the air could be too thin for proper breathing. And so instead the inside of the pale, blank wood was beset with runes and glyphs that filtered available air, and in a pinch, sucked in what was nearby and gathered it up until it was sufficient before letting the mage breathe it in.

The Cynod was, understandably, quite proud of their creation.

Beside the Aviatorii Commander, eleven others stood at the ready, covered from head to toes in mask and thick gambesons and robes. The very notion of conventional armor was a foolish one, offering only more weight for their runes to counteract. At these heights, the only true danger was spellfire, and that was what their outfits were designed to ward off. A sword might pierce through every layer they wore with little difficulty, but concentrated spellfire was needed to break their wards. Bar the Thalmor Sunbirds, however, none would make it that far, not against these men.

They were the Emperor's finest.

They were without fear, nor mercy.

They were his Aviatorii.

"Thank you, Captain." The commander's voice was devoid of emotion as he offered his fellow officer a nod. The unmasked man nodded in turn, offering a clasped hand over his heart in salute before returning to the bridge. The airship was little but deck, cabins and bridge, being meant not for bombs but to carry the Aviatorii. The leader turned to regard his men; "Check your partner's equipment and wards. Work in teams of two. Eleven, you're with me."

He did not much care for this kind of mission. They were the best of the Empire, peerless in the face of the rest of humanity in their sheer, destructive potential. They were meant to take on Sunbirds and turn the tide of battles. Burning down a settlement seemed... _trivial_.

* * *

He'd never been to Jader before, but his grandparents, and his mother, were from here.

Phillipe hummed to himself, and to his surroundings, as he wandered down the street. One hand held a bottle of wine, the other the shoulder of Charles. His fellow Chevalier stumbled ahead, as drunk as he himself had ended up, but much less skilled in keeping his gait straight.

It was a strange thing, to be here now. He'd wondered if he could ever find the house his mother had grown up in. Was it still standing, or had it been torn down in favor of some merchant's warehouse? His mother had told him once how close it was to the town square, so that they had always been some of the first at sermon in her family. He knew that probably meant it had been prime estate, and bought by someone else by now. Living in Lydes meant there was very little he'd ever really known of where his family, or at least his mother's side, came from.

Could he have only seen Jader as it was in times of peace, with its people filling the streets and vendors bellowing out the qualities of their wares. The smells of the town, freshly baked bread, tanneries, florists, wine-makers and sellers, grocers and taverns, all would have merged into a whole, something that was more than each apart. Each town and city had its own scent to it, its own...soul, he supposed. Instead, now the streets only teemed with soldiers and Chevaliers, retinues and whores.

He'd already visited the latter, with Charles. It had served well to rid his mind of the darker thoughts, and he'd treated the lady well enough, scant lady though she was. It was not in his nature to be rough, and he often doubted whether he could have even been, would she have asked. His sisters would have mocked him endlessly if ever he was known to be a poor handler of ladies.

There'd been a garden with the house, if his memory was not yet completely shot from the wine. His mother had a collection of pressed plants she'd gathered from it, most of them herbs or flowers that went well with tea. Chamomile was a flower he'd first come to know through her collection, and it had still carried that distinctive, sweet scent.

It was just terrible, that he could not have come here but for war. Ferelden was fast descending into open heresy, and defied the Chantry when they refused to evict the heathen Imperials. As a soldier, he could understand the desire to have around such apparently impressive forces as what these Easterlings had arrived with. He could, as a Chevalier, respect the stories of chivalrous behavior they had shown towards the commoners. His own family was, after all, of common descent. But, all that seemed washed away in the face of their heresy. And not just their own, but the way they were manipulating the Fereldans into spiting the Divine, and spreading ideas of false gods and the Maker's death.

Had they only been Andrastian, he could have been singing, dancing and drinking with these Imperials. It brought from his heart a fury he seldom felt, that such complete foreigners would rather spit on the Maker, his Bride and all that was sacred, than to ever even try to understand the True Faith. How could people fall so far? They were no better than the Qunari, in the end, if this was the way they would treat the Faith. And now, the Emperor had to take up arms once more. The nobles demanded it, and the Chantry would surely otherwise launch an Exalted March that would lack _his_ leadership, and bring upon the misguided Fereldans, far more misery than...-

"Hey...Phillipe...?" Charles, bless his brother-in-arm's heart and soul, for even if he did not know how to keep his drink, nor his composure, he was a kindhearted man indeed, interrupted his line of thoughts, though his speech was slurred; "Hey, Phhhhillip?"

"Hmm, yes?" Phillipe turned his mind from theology entirely. In truth, he'd probably have time aplenty to consider it later, given that there was little indeed for either of them to do until the Emperor decided the time had come to cross into the valley. He noticed Charles was squinting at the moon, or maybe the stars, and wondered if he should tease his friend and pretend it was the sun; "What is it?"

"Does't...doesn't that star look...awfully bigger than the others?" Phillipe suppressed his smile at his comrade's antics, humoring him with a gaze at the night sky.

Tonight was actually a beautiful one indeed. The moons were full, and bathed Jader in pale light, the larger adding a reddish tint to the whole thing. The stars shone prettily in the darkness, a few brighter than their fellows. He noticed some of them seemed to blink out of sight, almost as if a cloud passed before them, but the cloud would have been so tiny, it could never carry rain. The stars nearby the shadow, however, _did_ seem ever so slightly brighter. There was a warmer, almost yellowish glow to them, and only seemed to grow as he watched.

"I'd say it's quite a few of them, actually..." He would confess, this was a phenomenon he'd not quite seen before. Stars that seemed to grow brighter the longer you stared, might this be some trick of the eye by spring winds? They were close enough to the sea that it could be some fog from there as well, though he'd never heard of such before; "I count...ten? Twelve?"

"That's not normal, is it?"

"I should think not..."he muttered, leaning against a house façade to better steady himself. Just because he was better at maintaining his posture under spirits, he wasn't exactly immune to their effects. The warm evening air could have lulled him to sleep, under different circumstances. Now that he kept watching the stars, however, it seemed as if they were growing in size as well; "...do you also think they are growing larger?"

"So it's not...not just my eyes playing?" Charles slurred, his speech not entirely sobered yet. Phillipe tuned him out, eyes intent on the stars that seemed to grow where all others did not...or, wait, he was wrong. There were more stars now than before, he could swear on it, and these in kind also seemed to possess a warmer glow; "...did...did...did more just..."

"Something's wrong..." the Chevalier muttered. What pained him was that he'd no notion of what, or how. Something about this phenomenon just rubbed him the wrong way. It was not natural, he could almost be sure of that, but beyond that certainty, he had no idea what it was then. Was it a trick of the light, or had more stars appeared than before? He could count at least twenty of them now, and the strange shadow that passed before stars seemed to return nearby. The hairs stood on his neck, and he did not know what to make of it; "Something's wrong, Charles. Come, we should find...-"

The first of the new stars suddenly grew in size, and those that had followed it did as well. Phillipe froze where he stood, eyes wide at the change. No longer did they look like stars, but now rather minute suns. And they were growing in size faster now, much more so than before.

Like a doe caught before a torch, he was compelled to remain where he was, staring at the suns as they seemed to streak from the skies now, faster and faster until it became evident that they were not merely growing, but outright falling towards them.

The first fireball struck a house at the end of the street they stood on. The timber-made structure exploded outwards, sending a shower of roof tiles and shattered wood across its immediate surroundings. The shock was enough to jolt Phillipe from his stupor, even as the next fireball struck its target, blowing apart one of the milling guild's warehouses. The fire almost immediately ignited the flour within, blooming outwards in ball of fire the size of the warehouse itself.

More and more now, the skies rained fire over their heads. Jader was under attack, but where from he couldn't even begin to say, only that they could make it rain death and flame. Phillipe grabbed Charles by the arm and ran, thanking the Maker's foresight that he wore armor even in town.

Then the world went mad around him, as houses on both sides of the street were struck with fire, their street-level windows exploded outwards in a shower of timber and glass. He bit down on the pain as shards cut his unprotected face and hands. He kept his eyes on the street ahead, where shadows passed over the fires already consuming more houses than he could keep track of.

He saw one of them when he turned the corner, no longer holding Charles whom the sudden attack had left very much sober and capable of keeping up. On the roofs of a house that was not yet engulfed in flames, a figure had perched itself like a crow or a gargoyle. At the distance, he could make out few details, bar robes or cloaks around the figure.

"Why are we stopp-" Charles bumped into his back, sending Phillipe forward and out into the street from his hide behind the corner. The perched figure didn't immediately see him, but it was clear it had _heard_ them, and when its faceless mask finally snapped to where he was trying to get back into hiding, fire followed; " _Merde_! What are these creatures of fire?!"

"Mages!" Phillipe answered, for it was the only thing that made any sort of sense. He was still not prepared for the apparent mage in question to swoop in from above like a bird of prey, a staff in its arms spewing fire like a dragon would. All around them, soldiers and fellow Chevaliers were running about, stumbling from houses on fire, in various states of undress; "Into the side-alley, _now_!"

They took a sharp turn, right as the flames felt as if they were boiling the back of his head. Men that had been running ahead of them were caught instead, their screams only adding to the echoing cacophony of anguish and terror that was now Jader. The mage did not come flying for them, even as they ran through the dark and cramped alleyway, shoving aside and stumbling over crates and barrels and beggars. The latter made no sound at all, likely too terrified to move.

The night became a literal nightmare once they came out upon the street again. Not a house in sight had not caught fire, and still fireballs rained from the skies. Despite the heat, Phillipe felt only a cold dread as they ran across the scorched cobblestones, dodging debris as buildings exploded around them.

"The tavern!" Charles shouted as they came down the street. Phillipe stopped and stared at his friend as had he gone mad. Had he, to think of the tavern _now_? "The tavern's cellar's made from stone."

Phillipe nodded, too out of breath to do anything but. They were close, too. He knew the tavern was just around the bend of the street. But the street itself was already becoming hard to recognize, with houses and buildings on both sides either aflame or completely in ruin already. The mages sped above them, flying with the a grace he could only morbidly admire to be on par with swallows. They made no sound when they flew, only when the fiery death they dispensed was unleashed upon soldiers underneath. Archers who found themselves brave enough to attempt shooting down these demons would only be rewarded at the Maker's side, and found in this world only death and ashes as the flying mages strafed them, like a passing dragon turning them to dust in hellish fire.

Phillipe stumbled, his vision blurred by pain as he hit the ground. His instincts already told him what had caused his stumble, but he still looked, to the detriment of his sanity. A charred corpse had blocked his way, blown apart at the midsection. Where his armored foot had kicked its side, the body had simply caved in.

"Come on, Phillipe!" Charles yelled, pulling him to his feet. Bile was smeared across his mouth, and he reeked of it; "Come on!"

Around the corner, hundreds ran about in chaos and terror. Horses, freed from their stables either by merciful stable hands or the fires, ran through the crowds as well, trampling those too slow to move. A panicked warhorse would not stop, no matter who told it to, and the two Chevaliers knew this all too well. It struck Phillipe he'd spared hardly a thought for his own charger in this madness. Renault might be dead now, a smoldering corpse in his booth, or running amok between the houses. Either way, there was little Phillipe could do now, but pray that the Maker would see to the animal's safety.

Like wraiths out of bedtime stories, the attacking mages streaked across the crowd, spilling fire and explosions into the throng. Both Phillipe and Charles kept to the walls, trying to turn a deaf ear to the screams as men were blown apart or incinerated where they stood.

How long had it been, since this chaos began? He'd already lost his sense of time, and knew only that the only lights now were the fires of burning homes and spells, and not the rising sun. Dawn was a long way off, and there was really no reason to hope it would bring an end to the madness.

In the middle of the street, one of the army's own battlemages had jumped into a fountain, whipping forth his staff. Those nearest made for cover as he spat bolts of arcane energy into the air, using the masonry of the fountain to shelter him from retaliatory spellfire. A flying mage strafed down the street, its course clearly set for the battlemage. Phillipe offered a prayer to Andraste, even as the man in the fountain waved his arms, and spikes of ice flew from the fountain's waters. The first failed to hit, trailing behind the incoming flier until the battlemage adjusted his aim, leading his spells ahead of his target.

The first spike of ice hit the incoming mage dead-on, yet there was no change in his course nor speed. At first, Phillipe asked himself and the Heavens if the shot had missed anyway. The next hit as well though, and merely shattered upon something like a bubble in front of the attacker. It was some kind of barrier, or shield, and it shattered every spike of ice their battlemage flung at him. Then, the demon in man's clothing retaliated, a streak of fire that seemed more of a beam, and less a ball of flame.

Their battlemage's shield shattered after barely a moment's life, and the fires erased both him, and most of the fountain he had sought shelter in.

"Maker help us!" Charles screamed at the sight, and Phillipe would have joined him if not for his voice being stolen away by terror. How...what kind of magic could so utterly destroy a battlemage in a single blow? Were these even _humans_? What heretical sorcery was at play, and _why didn't the Maker help them_?!

He knelt when a fireball hit the wall above them. He couldn't even see _where_ it had come from, or whether it was even intended for them, or simply a random shot at a town full of defenseless souls. Was there even still a...- Phillipe winced when a roof-tile smashed into the ground next to him. When another did as well, he looked up to see if the roof was collapsing.

A small, black shape was the last thing he saw before the world was robbed away.

* * *

Burning down a settlement was a distasteful affair, and it gave him a sour taste in his mouth.

The captain of the Imperial Airship ' _Saint Peregrine'_ watched the ongoings down below, calming his nerves with a pipe of Elfroot. He drew in and let it linger, surprisingly weak though the sensation seemed. He was trying the best he could to block out the screams. But there was a point at which one couldn't turn out the screams. An entire settlement screaming as if with a single voice, as men, women, horses, animals, all fled in terror or burned alive.

It brought back too many memories, of what had happened to the towns and hamlets in the Thalmor's path, thirty years ago.

Still, this was an order, and he could see the sense in it. To strike the enemy preemptively, and with such overwhelming force that their soldiers would be terrified before even making it to an actual battlefield. There was sense in this, yes, but it was dreadful all the same.

"Captain." He nodded, knowing already what the crewman would say. Dawn was fast approaching, and the time-limit the General had said would come with it. There was no way of knowing what kind of magic or artillery the Orlesians might have managed to save, and then shoot at the airship once the sun revealed it. The Aviatorii couldn't fly back across the border unaided. For all their skill, they did not have the kind of magicka reservoirs needed; "Dawn approaches. Should we signal the mages to withdraw?"

"Yes." He did not take his eyes from the inferno below. How many had died tonight, he wondered? How many hundreds, or thousands, had perished in the flames? Knowing the attack hoped to discourage the Orlesian soldiers, was one of the only thoughts that gave him some measure of comfort. Overwhelming destruction, to save lives later down the line; "Send out the signal, and have us turned about. I'll have us back across the border before the whole sun's over the horizon."

"Yes, Sir." The crewman snapped off a salute and turned on the spot, marching back inside to relay the orders. The Captain remained where he was, eyes yet locked on the hellscape below. It still reminded him too much of his youth, only now he was so far above the fires, and not caught between them, fighting Dominion soldiers with a broken sword.

His hand shaking lightly, he took the pipe from his mouth, staring at it in brief confusion.

In a twist of irony, he'd forgotten to light it.

* * *

 **Again, I must admit I have been looking forward to writing this chapter for a while. I was also kinda dreading it, since I wasn't sure if I could do justice to a Dresden-style firebombing. On second thought, not sure I _want_ to do justice to something like that, but you get my point, I hope. Still, I'd like to know how it's received :)**


	19. Gherlen's Promise

**Gherlen's Promise**

* * *

"You're leaving for Amaranthine today."

Alma made the announcement as if out of nowhere. Her mood had seemed foul since the morning, but it wasn't until now Talia had suspected anything might actually be wrong. Had she fucked something up, somehow, and irritated her pseudo-mentor to the point of cutting their lessons short? In spite of it all, she'd actually come to enjoy learning under a kinsman, even one as... _eccentric_ , as Alma. She'd learned as much about potioneering from the old crone in the past months as she had during her entire stay in Winterhold, which wasn't exactly a small achievement. Especially because so much of it had centered around the plants and herbs of Thedas, most of which she'd never even heard named before. And the fact that she'd actually, to some degree, learned enough fine-control over her magicka to control shock-school spells was, honestly, nearly blowing her mind.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, sitting cross-legged across the old woman in the clearing. Aedan was in town, leaving the two of them alone in the woodlands. Alma took the flask from her hip-belt and poured some down, then offered it to Talia. It tasted like some sort of herbal tea. She'd brought something wrapped in linen and leather, long enough that it could easily be a bow or a staff or something entirely third.

"No." she shook her head as the younger Breton drank, then took back the flask; "Not as such, anyway. Look, this is... _sooner_ than I'd expected." The old woman sighed, looking at the flask but seemed in the end to disregard it; "I've taught you all I can, in the time I had to do it. Last night, the Empire struck the first blow against Orlais, by burning down Jader with Gaspard's army in it."

Talia stared at the old woman, unsure at first if she'd misheard that. The _Empire_ had started the conflict? No, no in hindsight it was the obvious move, rather than to let the Orlesians attack first, but...damn it all, she _hated_ war. Especially now, when the mere notion of risk made her guts churn, and a hand to seek out the her bulging abdomen. It was showing now, and Alma noticed where she held.

"There's not a lot more I can do for you, but I can tell you where to go." Alma averted her eyes, something Talia had come to understand meant she was either lying, or knew something she couldn't tell. Either was a pain, and frustrated her more than she could immediately put into words; "Thedas has always been a powder-keg, waiting to go off. The Chantry, and the shared belief in the Maker was one of the only things keeping its nations from engaging in continent-wide conquest, and the Circles have grown increasingly authoritarian since Divine Beatrix took over."

"And...then we arrived." It was a foregone conclusion, of course, which didn't make it any easier to accept. _She_ might singlehandedly have caused the next Great War, and she couldn't even blame Brelyna since the Dunmer had been largely uninvolved in politics, whereas _she_ had gone and married into royalty; "...fuck my life. Really."

"Yeah, the Legion showing up meant all kinds of ideas suddenly popping into people's heads." The old woman nodded; "Among others, why the Chantry wasn't aware of Tamriel, and what kind of gods the Empire worships, and why our mages don't have to fear demons, does that mean our gods are more real than theirs? That sort of stuff..."

"...what's that got to do with where I should go?"

"The conflict's going to grow, making the battles to be fought between Orlais and Ferelden pale in comparison." Somehow, that didn't instill a lot of confidence, she had to be honest; "Soon enough the whole of Nirn will be embroiled in a greater war than anyone has ever seen before. Tamriel and Thedas both will burn, and while I don't know where or when it starts in Tamriel, I know where it'll kick off in Thedas."

"Where?"

"Kirkwall." Talia frowned at the answer, having no actual idea where or what that was; "It's one of the major cities in the Free Marches, not far from the border to Orlais. Someone blows up the city's Chantry, and... that's kinda what I want you to prevent."

"You... want me to stop someone from blowing up the Chantry?" she wasn't sure whether she wanted to prevent something like that, provided no one was inside. It'd still be a bit cathartic, considering what the Chantry had done to her personally; "...why not do it yourself?"

"...I've got business here in Ferelden." Alma explained, not that Talia found it a particularly _good_ excuse. The older Breton reached back and grabbed the wrapped-up object behind her, placing it on the ground before her; "And, I've got something for you."

"I already have a staff, though."

"Exactly." Alma nodded, undoing the wrappings. Within was...it was a sword, of some kind, but the handle was as long as the blade, and both curved in such a way that the weapon itself, really more a polearm than a sword, was almost shaped like an 's'; "Here."

"What...kind of sword is that?"

"Honestly?" The old Breton snorted; "No idea. It was lying around in Hakkon's lair, and I figured it'd come in handy some day. It's for when you can't exactly be swinging a staff around or use magic, but still need to get the message across."

"Why can't I use magic?"

"Kirkwall's Templars are...pretty strict, let's say." Alma mused, something like nostalgia in her voice; "And you don't want them trying to bring you in as an unsanctioned mage, Grey Warden or not. It's generally just better to keep a lower profile, not using magic."

"...right." she accepted the sword, not sure what else to say. The craftsmanship was clearly of high quality, the weapon itself easily worth more than most other things she possessed, maybe bar her Glaive; "It's...not like I don't like it. I'm just not good with swords."

"Trust me, you will be." The old woman hummed, shaking her head; "We've dragged this on long enough, I think. I've packed food for you both, at least enough to reach Amaranthine. I'd wager you could make that new Arl supply you, too."

"Nathaniel?" Right, he was the Arl now...Honestly she'd almost forgotten he existed, given she'd only had two or three real interactions with him; "Aedan knows him better than me, I think."

"Mmmm, I guess he does."

"So...this is goodbye, then?" Talia followed as Alma got to her feet. Was she sad, or relieved? Had anyone asked her back in Denerim, she'd have marked it down as pure relief, but...not it was kind of both.

"For now." Alma nodded, turning to face north; "But you won't get rid of me that easily, _Kiir_. We'll see each other again."

* * *

"It's done." Belisarius was of the opinion that he should have felt worse, when one considered the deed he'd ordered done. To destroy a city with aerial bombardment, it was a wicked act. But, he also knew that it would buy them time, hopefully. From his bedridden state, there was little he could do but receive and command; "Jader burns, and Gaspard's forces are in disarray."

"Yes, General." The Centurion was the same who had reported in earlier about the message from Gaspard, and now most fittingly was the one to deliver him news of the successful raid on Jader. Pullo, was his name, and one he might have to keep a closer eye on; "General Cauthrien sends her report as well. The fortifications are satisfactory in their current state, and will be continuously expanded upon for as long as possible. She has also sent words to the Bannorns and Arlings, to send what men they have trained at present, to a mustering point in Deerford. Legate Constanta awaits them there, and will lead the forces to Gherlen's Pass to reinforce our position there."

"Any news on...how many they've managed to train up?" He had great trust in his centurions, and their ability to beat a proper soldier out of just about any recruit, but here they were dealing with an untrained culture altogether, as well as a timespan half as much as the usual minimum. At best they'd be standard Hastatis.

"All the bannorns put together...I think the total estimate is somewhat short of two thousand." Centurion Pullo frowned; "It's just about five decent cohorts, but I doubt there's anyone fit for Principes, not to mention Triarii..."

"...Cauthrien always did mention she'd like to try out a differently organized army." He would have chuckled at fate, if aforementioned fate hadn't also seen fit to blow him up; "I suppose now she'll have the chance."

"Yes, General."

"Has there...been any changes, with regards to the Aulus girl?" he wasn't keen on trying to levy a Grey Warden for the war, seeing as it was one of Thedas' few, universally recognized rules that the Wardens remain politically neutral. He knew he'd have to balance that somehow, with her status as nobility of both Ferelden and the Empire.

"The last report we've got on her puts her in Oxford, training under the old potioneer there." The centurion explained; "Apparently they go into the woodlands for herbs every day, though our source suggests they may be engaged in magical training as well."

"They?" he frowned; "You mean just Aulus, yes?"

"Probably, yes." The man nodded, remaining at attention; "We're going by just one pair of eyes and ears in Oxford so far, and he's made it sound like there's some definite spellcasting going on out there."

"...understood." It would only be a boon if the young woman was honing her abilities, truth be told. He'd much prefer that she was put under the tutelage of one of the Legion's battlemages, but even this much, he supposed, was an improvement; "...this potioneer, what do we know about him?"

"Apparently it's an old woman, General." He would have raised a brow, had he either of them left; "She seems somewhat infrequent to the town, but has a record of competent work and effective treatment of most ailments. Oxford's Chantry is one of her most loyal customers it'd seem, judging by how much of her apparent business comes from either the Chantry or local Templars...apparently she's also Orlesian."

"Orlesian?" something churned in his guts, though he fought it down. There were countless of Fereldans with roots in Orlais, given the somewhat...ungentlemanly treatment the Chevaliers gave their servants during the occupation. He'd been reading up on what texts detailed those years, and found it less than appetizing; "I don't suppose we have a name on her?"

"Leliana, though we suspect that to be a forged identity." More and more, Belisarius was becoming curious as to what position exactly Pullo occupied in the Legion. He couldn't know this much and only bark orders at soldiers all day. The look in his one eye must have made the centurion aware of his curiosity; "It seems too coincidental, that Aulus travels across the countryside to meet with one specific potioneer, who just happens to share name with one of her deceased companions."

"Centurion Pullo, what exactly is your position within the Legion?" There was a good chance he actually knew, but the explosion had knocked more than a few memories around in his skull. The bald-shaven man straightened as if being reprimanded.

"Centurion of the Second Cohort, General sir." Of course, he knew _that_ , but the centurion luckily continued before he had to ask; "You... also appointed me with the intelligence officers three years ago, and I have served as such since that day. Sir. Was my report unsatisfactory?"

"The report was satisfactory." Belisarius sighed, hopefully reassuring a man who might have worried for his salary; "Forgive me, but my head must have been hit harder than I thought."

"Of course, sir." Centurion Pullo nodded, remaining at attention; "Was there...anything else, General?"

"...actually, yes." Belisarius said, turning his eye around the room to ensure they were at least a little alone; "Get someone to shadow this potioneer. I want to know what she's doing to lure Aulus out in the woods with her, and I want to know why. And then send a message to Cauthrien. She needs to finish what she can, and get ready to hold back the Orlesians."

"Of course, sir." The Centurion clasped a hand over his chest; "I will see to it immediately."

"Good. Dismissed."

* * *

It was the third night after the Burning of Jader, and there was no more time left, it seemed.

"Damn those mages, did they even thin their numbers at all?"

Cauthrien swore under her breath, reining in her charger. The soldiers at either side of her did the same, waiting for her to lead as she turned her mount. Campfires dotted the darkness in the hills before them, too many to count. Even then, the ones she _could_ immediately count ranged well above the hundreds, and if each accommodated several men, they were in for a storm of bodies before the week was out.

"Ser Cauthrien, we should get back to the Pass." One of the serjeants urged her, anxiousness thick in his voice; "If a sentry discovers us, it could make Gaspard move on the border."

"He is _already_ moving on the border, damn it." She hissed; "And keep your voice down, Maker's Breath, or we'll be _heard_ before anyone sees us."

"Yes, General." The man muttered, his words almost a whisper now.

Damn it all, and damn it some more to boot, this was too soon. If Gaspard had already managed to gather up his forces this quickly, he was probably putting them through a forced march on the border. If they wanted to thin out his army, it _had_ to be done there.

"We're a day's ride out from the Pass, which means Gaspard's at least twice that, maybe an extra day if he's keeping his supply train under watch..." Maker damn it all, suddenly preparations seemed pointless in the face of such a host. How had Loghain ever managed to win at River Dane, when Orlais could throw such numbers at them? "Back to the Pass. Send riders to evacuate every village this side of the Dane, and get word to the garrison in Redcliffe Arling to start fortifying the river crossings along the Frostbacks."

She spurred her mount even as she spoke, and the horse took off down the beaten path. She trusted in its ability to keep itself from stumbling in the darkness, for she herself could see little but what the moons lit up. The Imperials thought the moons were parts of their Creator god, a funny notion really. She wasn't sure why it suddenly came to her as they rode back east.

Maybe, it was because she knew this fight could never be a winnable one without the Imperials.

They rode throughout the night, and the day after that. Breaks were short, and more for the sakes of their horses than the men riding them. They tied themselves to the saddles, in the end, and simply took turns to sleep atop the moving animals, one keeping them on the right track as the other two slept. She could have, - _should_ have - sent scouts to do this, or even common soldiers, but she knew there would be the nagging doubt, that they would miss something if she did not see it herself.

The three riders emerging from the western hills were far less an imposing sight than they had been upon departure. Cauthrien, groggy and nauseous from the riding and awkward sleeping, allowed one of the Imperials to catch her as she, untied, simply fell from her horse. _I was...not meant for horseback._

"General." The soldier who caught her let her stand on her own, close enough that it was clear he intended to catch her, should she fall. She was not yet fully accustomed to soldiers showing such care for their superior officers, and the gesture at first confounded her.

"Gaspard will be here before the week is out." Her voice was a rasp, worn and dry from the strain of being riding through the night; "Spread the word, I'm going to address the men."

The soldier nodded and took off in the direction of the main camp, the hundreds of tents and barracks located behind a bend in the road, concealed by a hill. Cauthrien righted herself, accepting a waterskin from some unseen soldier. She found it hard enough to focus as it was. To ride herself had not been a wise decision, but again, she knew there would have been doubts had she not. A trumpet sounded from somewhere within the camp. _That was fast._

Minutes passed, and thousands of soldiers amassed before one of the bell towers. She climbed it, discretely assisted by one of the Legion's battlemages reducing gravity's effects on her body. When she made it to the top, it was not hard at all to tell which soldiers were Fereldan, and which were Legionaries, the latter always working in armor, the former not. From here, she could also take it an almost complete view of their fortifications, stretching all the way across the pass. Lines upon lines of staked trenches had been dug into the softening spring soil, each open to the back so that Orlais' own archers could not use them for cover. Caltrops were yet being strewn across the seemingly untouched patches of land before and between the trenches, in precise patterns that their own soldiers would know, but Orlais' would not.

And dozens of artillery pits along the lines furthest to the back, where from catapults, trebuchets and ballistae of varying sizes were being constructed, or rolled into place. She recognized a great many of them as the weapons Belisarius had demonstrated to her, the machines that could spit bolts faster than an archer could draw his arrows.

And in front of it all, the Legion had dug a ditch twice as wide as she was tall, and thrice as deep. It was steep enough that she would have needed a rope or tools to climb out once in, and the bottom was lined with stakes as well, sharp enough to impale a man through chainmail and steel.

Orlais would have to pass here, for to the north was but more mountains, and to the south the Frostkeep River.

One of the Legion's Legate's - the Orc Glub Khaok - was up there as well, and handed her a small flask of green liquids. She'd come to understand enough about Imperial potioneering that they divided their basic remedies into a few, standard colors. Green was for stamina and endurance, and she accepted the flask with a grateful nod.

Orcs, despite their appearances, were some of the most polite and enduring soldiers she'd ever seen. He took back the flask wordlessly when she finished, and simply nodded for her to speak.

"Four days." She started, relieved that her voice seemed to carry once more; "Four days. That's how long we have, at best, before Gaspard reaches us. Before the Orlesian host washed against our bulwark...There are some among you, who fought with me as garrison soldiers during the siege of Denerim. I pledged then to uphold our homes, and Denerim yet stands, a testament to courage and determination in the face of overwhelming odds. We shall achieve this, once again."

She hated giving speeches. Loghain and King Cailan had been genuinely good at it, where as she had never thought there would be a need to learn such a craft.

"They shall not pass."


	20. A Mentor's Friend

**A Mentor's Friend**

* * *

"Gaspard is already on the move?"

Belisarius had been moved into one of the Palace's guest chambers, an improvement over the hospital by far. The bed here was a great deal more comfortable than the thin straw-mattress he'd first woken up on, and the air was not echoing with the screams and whimpers of his men. Despite knowing that his status and position afforded him these luxuries, technically, he was unused to actually drawing upon his privileges. He felt not a small tinge of shame at having such comfortable surroundings, while those of his men caught in the attack would remain in place far less so. He'd managed to get the servants to place him upright enough that it almost felt like he was sitting on his own.

They'd received the message not an hour ago, that Gaspard's army had already gathered itself after the attack, and was on the march for the border. Once they crossed, it would be an official declaration of war, if the raid on Jader hadn't been enough of one. Fergus, the still freshly minted King of Ferelden, was chewing on his knuckles as he paced before the table between them. A map of the border was spread out upon it, showing Dragonmount Bannorn, as well as several towns and hamlets north of the Frostkeep River. It also showed clearly that there was no other path for Gaspard's forces to take, if he wanted entrance to Ferelden. North, the Frostbacks cropped up again until the ocean swallowed them up, and south the Frostkeep River prevented any attempts at moving his heavy cavalry across.

"How the _Hell_ did he gather his forces this soon?" the King demanded, turning to him; "I thought your mages burning Jader to the ground was so that we could _prevent_ this."

"...it's evident that either Gaspard had reinforcements not even a day away from Jader, or we severely underestimated his officers." Damn it all, he'd done it again. Underestimating the servants of the Chantry seemed a vice outright these days, and one he could not escape; "We need to get a message to Soldier's Peak, and have the Aviatorii launch again. We can only harry their forces too little until they enter the Pass."

"That makes sense." Fergus sighed, slumping into one of the chairs. Belisarius often found himself wondering what tortures the monarch before him had endured, that he seemed so much older than his younger brother; "What about the reinforcements from the Bannorns? There's also the household troops to take into account."

"I've already arranged... _Cauthrien_ , has already arranged for the irregulars to be deployed at the sides of the valley." In all honesty it was shared work, but Cauthrien had been pulling all the weight since his incapacitation; "They'll make sure Gaspard's scouts and outriders fail to report back, should he attempt reconnaissance of alternate routes, and pick off any stragglers that may split off, once the battle begins."

"From what I can gather of the map, you're only deploying crossbows in these trenches...where are the archers?" Fergus pointed out, gesturing to the little wooden pieces strewn across the map. All bore simple symbols, of either a spear, a sword, crossbow or bow. It was way of doing things Belisarius had never seen before, but now that he had, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world to keep track of soldiers. In some ways, Ferelden was yet ahead in warfare, a curious realization. Fergus suddenly seemed to notice the pieces along the valley walls; "Ah, my apologies...Won't this expose them to Gaspard's infantry, though?"

"I'm reliably informed that the hillsides are steep enough that climbing won't be advisable." He scoffed, though not to deride the King's observations; "Should Gaspard attempt to climb the hillsides to flank our forces, or catch the skirmishers, he will only expose his men to arrows and bolts. Every artillery-pit bar the central defenses can be turned on the hills."

"Very well..." the King nodded; "I suppose it's not realistic to hope that the defenses at Gherlen's Pass may hold back Gaspard?"

"It's...always sound to plan for fallbacks." Belisarius allowed, tacitly admitting that he himself was not brimming with optimism. Gaspard seemed to have the logistics and oversight to regroup even after such a raid, traits that in turn made the Imperial wary of throwing the Aviatorii at him again. If he started seeing a pattern, it was likely he could counter it. At the same time, not strafing the Orlesians as they marched was to let chances of victory slip away been his fingers; "The crossings at Aberbeck and Dane are being fortified, in the eventuality that our defenses at the Pass break..."

The sad truth was that he'd had to prioritize resources for the Pass over the river crossings, meaning the earthworks at both were as of yet woefully inadequate to halt even a bandit raid. There was also the smaller, less commonly used path between Jader and Kincaster. It would not support supply wagons, his own scouts had confirmed as much, but it still held the risk of Orlesian forces heading through for a flanking attack.

He'd had the area flooded, using its proximity to the groundwater level. It had turned everything into marshy swamplands, and would hopefully stop Gaspard's advance through. At least it would slow him down enough that they could redirect forces to stop him.

"Should we fall, in the end..." Fergus sighed; "...I can only have gratitude for what you've done for my country, General."

"...I'm just following my mandate, Majesty." It sounded weak as he spoke it, and not merely for the state of his body. He could neither deny nor openly admit it, but he'd come to care for Ferelden and its people, even in the short time he had been its protector. Its people was innocent in a way, ignorant of the true horrors of war that only showed when your enemy wanted you dead to the last woman and child. Divines willing, he could keep them ignorant of such brutalities.

A small, almost unnoticeable smile was on the King's lips;

"All the same..."

* * *

"General Cauthrien." Legate Khaok called from outside her tent. It was barely even morning yet, but she'd already been in the process of donning armor. Gaspard's forces could arrive already tonight, she could ill afford not being dressed accordingly to receive - and possibly stab - royalty; "May I enter?"

"Enter." She barely looked up from tightening straps, waiting for the bulky soldier to stand at attention. She was one of the few Fereldans in the Pass who wore plate, the armor itself enough that she stood out in the throng. Since the Imperials had taken over the mantle of restoring the army, they had started standardizing equipment, a feat she'd long wanted accomplished, but never known how. Belisarius must have strong-armed every single smithing- and armorers' guild in Ferelden, to do what she had not been able to. Chainmail and coats of plates were by far now the common sight, and it did help to make the army seem more...professional, almost.

It gave a sense of unity she hoped the men would draw on, when Orlais was upon them.

"General." The Orc saluted her, fist over his chest rather than the Fereldan salute. She was still getting used to both being acceptable; "An old woman has appeared in camp, requesting an audience with you."

"...an old woman?" she glanced up, abandoning the idea of tightening her cuirass - for now - frowning at the Legate; "What do you mean? A civilian? An herbalist?"

"We're...not entirely sure." Well, there was a new one: An _uncertain_ Orc; "She said you'd want to see her...and then just shut up."

Damn the Maker's sense of humor, that civilians and probably some camp follower was now trying to get her favor, right before a battle. At least it wasn't a Revered Mother, the Chantry being on her list of people she did not want to see right now. There was probably already a decree out in Val Royeaux, that any who conversed with creatures like the Orcs, were heretics by definition. She could _easily_ imagine such a decree, and it worried her that she could not hold the _Chantry_ in higher regard.

"I don't suppose she at least _deigned_ you with a name?" she sighed, waving him off; "Never mind. She can at least entertain me while I finish donning armor."

"...Yes, General." Khaok nodded and left her tent, leaving Cauthrien to bemoan the state her life was now in. Well, at least it was probably going to be a rather short one, if that was anything remotely close to a silver lining. It was more of a black lining, really, because she honestly would rather avoid dying if at all possible.

They'd already made the pass to Kincaster nearly unpassable, drowning everything in enough saltwater that it would probably never be suitable for agriculture again. The villagers _could_ always become salt miners, provided Gaspard's men didn't raze their homes. The Ash warriors, or at least those left from the Blight, were guarding the passageway there, and would send word should Gaspard make the attempt.

That left only Gherlen's Pass, and it was close enough to Orzammar that a final, frantic retreat could be made to within its massive doors. The Dwarves already owed the Imperials a debt, and Ferelden too for surface colony rights. She had her doubts about the viability of the latter, but Queen Sorella pledging friendship to Ferelden could only help them in the end. She'd had no word from the dwarves about their actual stance in this conflict though, which rubbed her the wrong way.

"General Cauthrien." Khaok was back already, and had brought an old woman in weatherworn rags. It looked like it might have once been well-tailored and finely made, but now the years had turned it into a beggar's attire. The legate stepped to the side, allowing the old woman entry; "The old woman, as you requested."

"Thank you, Legate." She nodded to the Orc, a signal that he may resume his duties.

There was evident relief in his face as he saluted and took off, leaving her alone with the stranger. The notion struck her that, alone, she might be targeted by Gaspard's assassins. To boot, the old woman before bore few Fereldan traits, and could as well be a spy. She waited, both for a knife to be revealed, and simply for her "guest" to speak. When none came, and dull, green eyes instead just watched her, she lost some of her patience;

"...yes?"

"You look good, Cauthrien, all things considered." The old woman, or crone, mused. The declaration was enough that it threw her for a brief loop, not really sure what to say in response. Something about her accent rubbed her the wrong way as well; "You don't remember me, do you?"

"...I cannot say that I do, though I thank you for the compliment." It was the polite thing to say in response, and she hoped it was signal enough that she had neither recollection of her, nor the desire to waste time on... _whomever_ this was.

"I thought not, though it would have made this a reunion rather than a first of meetings." Uninvited, the old woman slumped herself into one of the chairs Cauthrien had for the other officers. She paused when about to ask her to leave, the notion striking her that Loghain had at times entertained guests before the battle, some unknown to her; "I am Alma, though the name probably means nothing to you. I fought with Loghain during the Rebellion, and I would like to offer my service to Ferelden once more."

"You're Orlesian, aren't you?"

She did not mean it as a threat of arrest, though currently she could easily have done so. Far from it, she was perplexed. She knew her mentor had often spoken of a comrade during the Rebellion, but she'd never assumed it to be an Orlesian defector. It would explain her apparent state of poverty, though. Few would wish to hire Orlesians, and especially in villages the memories and stories of the occupation would still be fresh.

Did she see this war as her chance to once more finally be of use? It wasn't an impossible thought, much as the idea of an old woman _fighting_ in one was far more so. Maybe her hopes were to die for Ferelden, and be remembered as such. Cauthrien found few options that did not depress her. All the stranger, when Alma then chuckled at her question.

"Loghain thought so too, at first." She smiled, her face a labyrinth of creases and wrinkles; "Everyone thinks I'm Orlesian at first, it's the accents, you know."

"You're a Breton?" she felt a knot untying in her stomach, as Alma nodded, but still, too much refused to add up; "I'm...not sure I understand. How could you have known Loghain, if the Empire only just arrived?"

"You've met the Aulus girl, yes?" she could only nod at that, starting to see where this was going. Talia Aulus, now Cousland, had also arrived prior to the Empire, but she'd never fully understood why; "We both arrived before the Empire, and both by accident. In my case, however, I've been here a lot longer."

"Both by accident...you mean magic?" Something warmed in her blood at the thought; "You mean you are a mage?"

"Well, I'm not an archer, that's for damn sure." Alma chuckled, showing fingers thin enough that they could have fit through the rings in Cauthrien's chainmail; "I'd snap my fingers off trying to draw one of your bows... _yes_ , I am a mage. I served Loghain as a battlemage of pretty high quality, if I do say so myself. Age might have worn my body, but not my mind."

She could have fooled her there.

"...I see." She wasn't actually sure if she _did_ , but it was all she could come up with at first; "I must admit I did not expect to have additional mages under my command but...why not register with the Imperials then, if you are one of them?"

"I'm also an unlicensed battlemage, General. The paperwork to get me into the Legion would take longer than the war." Alma scoffed, scratching at her neck; "I intend to serve you in the same manner as I served Loghain."

"...I don't suppose that was being rank and file?" Somehow she couldn't see it. Had Loghain had to deal with this woman as young, she could only wonder what else might have gone on between them. He'd been very close to only a few people, and everyone knew the lengths he'd gone to when King Maric disappeared; "What exactly was your task when serving under Loghain?"

"Not under, _with_ Loghain." Alma flexed a finger at her; "I was under his command as much as Maric was. I served with Loghain, because I believed in a free Ferelden, not because I was bound to service by my birth in this land...As for your question, I suppose I was his friend, in a way. He would ask of me what I could offer, never as an order, and I would oblige him...I didn't imagine Ostagar being the last time I would see him."

"...what can I request of you, then?"

"Gaspard's forces will be here by the morning." Cauthrien frowned at the certainty of such a statement; "Give me a suit of armor, and I'll give you their fear."

* * *

Phillipe rested his head back against the tree he'd decided to spend his watch beneath. The stars brightened up the skies, yet the moons were, for the moment, concealed behind clouds. Almost as if they were ashamed of assisting the heathen mages in their attack.

The casualties they had suffered during the attack on Jader had not been as horrible as he'd thought, given how the world itself had seemed on fire around them. Thousands had suffered horrible, scarring burns, but only a few hundred had actually died. At least, that was as far as he was aware.

The Emperor had managed to pull the army together after that night, by means neither Phillipe nor Charles really understood. Somehow, he had made it a point and succeeded to make personal rounds in the ruins, speaking with and encouraging the men. Phillipe had thought his heart would burst when his Majesty himself came around and clasped his shoulder, offering words of encouragement he'd been too far into Heaven to process.

Charles had laughed at him afterwards, but had been scant better off himself. Serving under the Emperor was one thing, but to actually meet the man, if Phillipe had ever held doubts as to whether Gaspard was a proper man or not, they had been shattered that night. To have met the man behind the name, it was a dream he had never imagined fulfilled.

The march on Ferelden had resumed the morning after, the Emperor himself taking the lead. No one had slept that night, and yet by example he had carried them all. Somehow, seeing their Emperor enduring the same stress and strain as his men, had scoured away all need for sleep. Was this, he wondered, what the men who had followed Andraste felt back in the day?

Renault snorted nearby, maybe making jests of his admiration. He could admit that the horse might have had a point, though he cared little. The fact that he'd been spared the flames by virtue of his stables not being struck was enough of a miracle to solidify Phillipe in his faith. If anyone could lead them straight to Denerim, and the salvation of Ferelden's soul, it was _their_ Emperor. Celene would have allowed the Chantry to launch an Exalted March, and the Fereldans would suffer the more for it.

"You laugh, yet I'd imagine you'd go skittish near the Emperor's horse, crazed fool..." he chuckled at Renault, watching the horse going about his business. Still, his heart had rarely felt such relief as when he'd found his charger, grassing on the hills outside the smoldering city, and unharmed to boot; "Get some sleep, _you're_ not the one on watch, _mon ami_."

"The day he listens, do make it known." Charles huffed, slouching down next to him with a clatter of plates and chain. The other Chevalier had brought his pipe along, already stuffing it with Elfroot. Hands that still shook a little managed to bring up steel and flint, and bring a spark to burn in the dried plant; "...tired?"

"As if I could drop." Phillipe sighed, meaning it. Devotion could only take a man through so many waking hours before the mind started making its demands known, and his demanded unconsciousness; "How many more hours?"

"Two, then we go grind stones, yes?"

"Two?" he scoffed; "I should count myself lucky to last _one_. Wake me if I do drop...or, talk about something."

"Something, _ami_?" Charles hummed, sipping on his pipe more than inhaling. As if it were a glass of spiced Antivan wine; "The Knight-Enchanters the Emperor brought to Jader, they are quite something, no?"

"The mages?"

Phillipe glanced up, as if one would walk by on cue. It was true, a rather sizeable contingent had arrived in Jader mere hours after the attack, in one of the strangest happenstances he'd ever seen. Had they been in Jader just half a day earlier, they could have either stopped the attack all together, or might have been targeted by the heathen mages, and wiped out.

It was no secret that the Knight-Enchanters were some of the best battlemages in Thedas, at least outside the Tevinter Imperium. But he didn't know just what kind of sorcery this Empire from the East was bringing with it, having already displayed such blatant disregard for the very laws of gravity. He knew mages could make things float, and even themselves levitate into the air, but...what he'd seen in Jader, it was as if those demons had been born on wings rather than the ground. And the way they rained fire, it had been more akin to being attacked by dragons than people.

"Mmm hmm, the Circles should be thanked. Rarely have I seen so many beautiful women, all at once." It was almost not even a surprise that Charles, the womanizer of Lydes, would focus on the fairer of the mages. Phillipe himself could not deny they were attractive, but also knew better than to pursue what was guarded by templars; "Or tried."

"Charles, you are my comrade in arms, but if the templars catch you I will laugh as they castrate you." Phillipe chuckled, though slightly horrified of the notion that his comrade had already managed to charm such cold and combative women.

"As I believe that pagan Emperor said to ours..." Charles hummed, blowing a perfect ring of smoke in the warm, clear air; " _if_ "

"Luckiest piss you've ever taken, to eavesdrop on such talks." He stared at the skies, trying to imagine the odds of doing such, and not being caught; "Though you really should stop eavesdropping on the Emperor, even by chance."

Silence reigned afterwards, with Phillipe enjoying the quiet, and Charles smoking his pipe. They were, perhaps, not the ideal Chevaliers, but he liked to think the both made up for it by adding some charm to a cadre that otherwise had so little of it. Feathers and masks did not endear one to the populace as much as generous tips and gentle loving. Himself, he very much liked elves but knew it was hardly a popular notion amongst the ranks.

All the same, he would have liked a lithe, elven woman in his lap to last through these dark hours. To simply _hold_ another, living, warm and breathing being would have helped keep the memories from scarring his eyes once more, and remind him that he was yet alive.

And Charles was unlikely to volunteer.

"...if those demons come back..." the other Chevalier started, removing the clay-piece from his lips. His fingers clenched just tightly enough around the wooden shaft that Phillipe took notice; "...do you believe we could pluck them from the skies, as the Emperor said?"

"If the Emperor says it..." Phillipe muttered, looking once more to the skies. If the Emperor said it, what then? Only the artillery crews knew exactly what they could accomplish, and information was not exactly shared, even to the Chevaliers. There was always the risk of Fereldan spies listening in, or whatever sorts of espionage those Imperials could employ.

Could they simply pluck them from the skies, truly? He knew little enough of how magic worked, but he'd yet never seen a mage wear armor, bar the Knight-Enchanters. And he'd seen only strange suits of furs on those demons, and not a single plate or piece of chainmail. What if they only expected to be struck by spells, and had no defenses against arrows? Did they simply know no archer could actually hit them, or did the shields he'd seen on the mage in Jader make them as immortal beings?

If so, what hope could even the Emperor have of ousting these heathens?

"...I guess it must be true, then." He continued, aware that he'd hesitated in his answer; "And then we break their lines at the Pass, ride to Denerim and apprehend their leader."

"If the Maker wills it." Charles nodded, taking a fresh draw of his pipe before handing it to Phillipe; "Now, how about I find us some company for the watch? I recall you enjoy them rather slant-eared and doe-eyes, yes?"

Phillipe scoffed, smacking Charles on his armored shoulder as the Chevalier stood, rolling his shoulders. He watched his friend wander off, himself sitting now alone with a pipe of Elfroot, still smoking between his fingers. Relenting, he sighed and took the draw he was offered, quietly relishing in the relief it brought.

Maybe, things could yet be salvaged.

"...if the Maker wills it, yes." He sighed, watching the eastern horizon; "And the Emperor."


	21. Art of War: Deception

**Art of War: Deception**

* * *

One of the key rules when deploying Aviatorii, was that you didn't have them fly during the day. The same, as a rule of thumb, went for airships.

Mages, in particular those of the Dominion, seemed able to pierce even the darkest of nights, be it through spells or enchantments. But their archers, and those who crewed their bolt-throwers, could not. That allowed for some leeway during the nights, but at day it rendered them far more exposed than what could be deemed worth the risk.

The Aviatorii commander nodded his head to the rest of his team, all present and accounted for. There had been neither casualties nor injuries during the attack on Jader, a textbook raid if ever there was one. But they'd encountered Orlesian mages, and knew they at least to some degree possessed the abilities to shoot at them in the skies. Now, they were about to add whatever artillery the Orlesians had to the equation, and it gave him an outcome he did not appreciate.

Concealed in the woods on the Orlesian side of the border, his men made the final checks. The charges in every enchantment were examined, and the staffs and grenades were confirmed to be properly strapped in. Satisfied with what he found, he slid the faceless visor over the opening in his helmet, his team mirroring the motion.

He made the hand signal for them to take off, the order immediately obeyed as his men released their footing, and floated a foot above ground. The grass and mosses beneath them flattened as they darted upwards, leaving the forest floor behind. They stopped, barely above the tree tops, then pressed out north-east, low enough that only those directly below could have seen them. Skirting the trees were not an unusual tactic, though he doubted the Orlesians would know.

They all knew their targets today, and what _not_ to target. Avoiding the Orlesian Emperor was a priority, for reasons he at first had not fully understood. In hindsight, it was still for dubious, if understandable reasons. They needed him alive to negotiate a truce, and his death would likely only serve to send the entirety of Orlais and the Chantry into a rage that could not so easily be stopped.

Mages and artillery, however, were priority targets. The former were largely an unknown factor, given how little factual information they had on the battlemages of Thedas. The Fereldan Circle had, surprisingly, shared information with them on a type of mage called a 'Knight-Enchanter'. Less so dangerous to them as they would be to the soldiers on the ground, and so far more preferable to take out from the air.

The artillery, and whatever spellfire could hit them as full flight, had top priority. As long as those remained in action, their own movement was restricted at best, and downright hazardous at worst. It was not unheard of, during the war, for Dominion bolt-throwers, or ' _talons'_ as they were called, to pluck an Aviatorii from the skies with a four-foot spear through his body. The wards shielding them were not intended for that kind of kinetic force.

They flew in perfect, nearly static formation, keeping their distances between one another. He was taking the lead, the enchantments in his helmet allowing him the eyesight of a hawk. The drake-staff strapped to his chest was an old, but thoroughly proven design, older even than the Mede Dynasty, but the grenades were a far more recent innovation, brought forth by some unholy merge of Redguard black powder and Argonian sludge-bombs. He was not keen on what they did to the human body.

"Orlesian army column, five miles up." The message was relayed without a voice, a mere thought that spread between them; "Spread and lock staffs for artillery spells..." he paused as they approached, something about the army ahead of them rubbing him the wrong way; "...confirm approximate hostile numbers?"

" _Estimate between ten and twenty thousand._ " Brief confusion was betrayed in Eleven's thoughts; " _Was the army not at near thirty thousand?"_

It had been, and they had been able to tell Jader had held at least that many. Why then, could they only find half such numbers present? There was no way he could be so optimistic as to think they'd wiped out a third of the Orlesian forces. Was the rest delayed?

"One, immediate report for General Cauthrien: Only half estimated enemy forces present at intercept point. Cause unknown. Will proceed with bombardment before making return." He measured each command, making sure to keep his focus so that nothing else slipped in. One nodded, five hundred meters to his left, and halted his advance before turning around altogether, then took off for the border; "Maintain current velocity and ready staffs for fire. I want two strafes over their positions. Priority remains artillery and powerful magical signatures."

Confirmations clicked in, all but One's who had by now left the effective range of their connection. Twelve looked ahead, maintaining his speed as they started clearing the tree tops. Horns sounded ahead, meaning the Orlesians had noticed them. He kicked more power into flight, shouldering his Drake-staff as energies ran their course through its ornate carvings and the enchanted metals within.

" _Current range is twenty four hundred."_ Six reported, redundant as he himself could observe the same, but a useful reminder all the same. That meant another kilometer before effective range, and they were eating hundreds of meters by the second. Even with the thick clothes and enchantments therein, the cold winds still seeped through at these speeds; "Locate targets and prepare to fire."

He could see their artillery now. Ballistae with both vertical and horizontal arms, lining up side by side to face them. He wasn't keen on facing bolt-throwers, no matter their speed. A spear launched from something that size would always outpace them, and could pluck them from the skies like a bird. Some had thought, once, that dressing them in ironflesh would prevent such threats, but all that was achieved was their speeds being cut in half, and turns in the air being all the harder to pull.

And they were still punctured by a well-aimed bolt, caring little than the first half inch of skin had become iron. For contrary to popular belief, the spell did not render one as if a golem or Centurion, but simply affected the skin. Doing anything to the muscles without seriously impeding their movement was a spell not yet developed.

The wind whistled as a javelin speared the air to his left, gone again so quickly he'd barely the time to process it. The roll he pulled to avoid was entirely born from instincts, far too late to have prevented anything had the spear struck. More followed, missing his people by what looked like the scantest of inches; "Maintain velocity. Take evasive action as required, but remain on course."

It was a dangerous order, he knew it was. Threats like these were exactly why they were not meant to fly during the day. The crew of a ballistae required nowhere near as much training to effectively shoot down a mage, as a mage did when learning to fly.

What borderline amazed him was that the Orlesian artillery crews were so precise. They were still more than a kilometer out, and moving at speeds that would drop an eagle from the skies out of sheer jealousy. Somehow their foes could track them, and fire with unnerving accuracy. And distance, for he'd rarely seen ballistae of such compact sizes boast such an incredible effective range.

His own staff was leveled directly at the closest ballistae, even as he realized the same was true in turn. Its crew had turned the monstrous machine about, and he could as well have stared directly down its slideway. There was a certain amusement to be found in the way the rest of the strangely undersized army did its best to clear away, leaving the ballistae and their crews on their lonesome.

"Ready to fire." He could see its crew furiously turning cranks and levers, even as the spear was dropped into place. His heart and soul ordered him to dodge or find himself skewered. His mind prevailed, however, and bade him take careful aim. It was a matter of sheer principle that he could place the first shot perfectly; "Fire barrage."

For a moment, the mouth of his staff glowed brighter and hotter than the Sun itself. The very weapon vibrated in his hands, numbing his shoulders as it charged. Below, the he could see the ballistae targeting him had drawn back fully, and an engineer was about to turn its potential energy into kinetic energy.

Then, with no recoil whatsoever, the streak of fire left his staff, as it did those of his men. He rolled the moment he'd fired the shot, aware that the ballistae would release before his shot reached it. Jader had been a hunting ground of near-defenseless prey, but here the risk was very real indeed. Now, as if time has slowed, he could watch the burst of fire racing for the ground, a line more than a ball of fire. His shot _was_ perfect, indeed, and he could see the spear carrying his name as it penetrated the artillery-spell. It emerged unscathed, for the spell itself would not actually have physical impact until it struck the ground, a safe distance from its caster as intended.

Then time snapped back, and he felt the sting of adrenaline as the spear passed him by, close enough that he could have reached out to touch it. Down below, the spells struck the ground, fire spreading outwards in massive balls of flame and debris as the immediate vicinities were incinerated. He continued his flight, knowing they were not equally numbered for artillery, and that they remained targets in the skies as long as Orlais retained its ballistae; "Good impacts on first strafe."

" _Magical signatures, four groups spread abo-"_ Eight's report was cut short as the mage himself caught one of the spears to the gut. The projectile barely paused when passing through the mage, continuing out the back of his body as momentum carried him forward and downwards. He'd been too preoccupied with the signatures, he'd missed a roll when the people below targeted him; "Ballistae are still in effect, damn it, do not lose sight of primary threat! Fire when ready."

Streaks of fire rained from the skies, tails in thin air as their casters speedily moved on. Artillery and men exploded when the ground below them erupted with fire, the spell sometimes passing half a meter into the trampled dirt before detonating, ripping apart their immediate vicinities.

He was directly above the main camp, and could see below where horses and wagons stood around. He released the strap on his grenade belt, allowing six spheres of glass to drop to the ground below. His speed gave them forward momentum, carrying them across half the camp before they struck soil. Flaming sludge exploded outwards wherever they hit, incinerating everything that was nearby. Horses, blind with terror, tore themselves loose from their posts and spread to the winds, trampling men and tents alike.

"Artillery destroyed. Come about for third strafe." Despite the temptations he was aware they all felt to remain, they would be retreating after the last strafing run. There was too much risk in remaining above the area when too many mages of unknown abilities were still around as well, and might launch reprisals any moment now. They'd already established that Orlesian mages were capable of shooting at them in the air, and he was uninterested in giving them a chance. That aside, the charges in his staff were already past the halfway point; "Fire when ready."

Less uniformly this time, the Aviatorii screamed above their foes as fire rained in their wakes.

* * *

Cauthrien watched the old woman, Alma, wandering off towards the north, taking the road that would lead her to Dragonmount, and possibly Nankirk or even Kincaster, the latter's beacon yet unlit.

Wearing armor that the Legate, Khaok, had suggested they give her rather than Fereldan plate, she was an odd sight. She walked with a glaive swung over her shoulders, itself enough that Cauthrien had stopped to ponder, and nearly ask. She'd come across but two Bretons since the start of the Blight, and both had strangely enough seemed to favor such weapons, and had shared the same, green eyes. Age had dulled Alma's that much was obvious, but they had still been so alike she'd found it remarkable.

Was there familial relation, she wondered?

"It's probably too late to ask, but...do you think I made a mistake?" she muttered to the Orc; "In gifting some complete stranger a suit of armor, on the mere word that she fought with Loghain?"

"Can't say I know much about your mentor, but sounds like he did better than most." Khaok said; "And you said yourself he spoke of someone like her at times...What messes with my mind is how she got here."

"What do you mean?" Cauthrien turned to him, seeing the Orc's eyes on the departing Breton's back.

"Far's I know, Aulus got here because some artifact they found in Skyrim messed with a spell. The Cynod detected its activation." She had no idea what the Cynod was; "If she's been here since your Rebellion, we would have known of an artifact like that going off...at least I'm pretty sure we would."

She didn't know what to say to that. She might have just made a mistake, but at the same time she might not. Trying to rectify her actions would probably be one, either way. She sighed, hating such dillemas, and silence reigned as men around them worked. Logs were stabled and reinforced, ditches dug deeper and stakes added to the defenses.

"...the horizon is on fire." Legate Khaok noted, like her wearing full plate. Orcs seemed to wear much heavier armor than their human counterparts in the Legion, though the design remained unchanged. She nodded, having seen it as well; "The Aviatorii are doing good work."

"Let us hope so." She muttered, glancing about. The final line of defenses against Orlais, the palisade ramparts, had been raised from the ground itself by the Legion's mages. They'd stacked logs upon logs, and reinforced the earthen ramparts with stone to the point that it now seemed a permanent wall, rather than a last-ditch measure; "...do you think we can hold them?"

The Orc hesitated, curling his lips into a grimace.

"...the Legion has endured odds worse than these, General." He allowed, at last; "Provided Gaspard finds no path unknown to us that he can use to bypass our defenses here, we can hold him..."

"What?" She paused and looked ahead as well, realizing the Legate's eyes were on the skies above the horizon, and not the road itself. A single dot had appeared, growing larger by the second until clearly recognizable as human. Just one, and for a moment she feared Gaspard had somehow killed all but one of the Aviatorii. Khaok's sigh at her side made her throw such thoughts to the wind, however; "What's this?"

"Standard procedure with the Aviatorii. They send a mage back to relay reports on unexpected changes, prior to full engagement." The Orc explained, the mage now close enough that they could see him flying a steady pace, rather than some frantic retreat; "Problem is they can't communicate over too big distances, so one couldn't just remain here to relay..."

"I see." She nodded, though still uncertain; "The rest will follow behind when the mission is accomplished, then?"

"Mmm." The Legate confirmed, his lack of words making it almost like a growl. The mage slowed down as he approached their lines, finally skipping across the wooden battlements with barely an inch between his feet and the horizontal logs; "Report."

"Only half estimated enemy forces present at intercept point. Cause unknown. Will proceed with bombardment before making return." The mage's voice was slightly distorted, almost muffled by his mask; "We counted between fifteen and twenty thousand, but Jader had at least thirty. We are at present unaware of the rest's whereabouts."

Cauthrien felt something tightening in her guts. What was Gaspard doing, when only half his forces seemed present on the Highway? She glanced quickly at the horizon to the north, but there was no fiery beacon to be seen on the hilltops.

The border crossing at Kincaster was still untouched, then. So, what was that devil to Gaspard up to?

* * *

The border crossing at Kincaster, once a simple earthen road, had become a massive, salty marsh from the earthworks of the Constructii. A canal spanning ten kilometers had been torn from the ground, allowing the ocean to spill in and submerge an area half the size of Oswin Bannorn.

It was a moat, in the same way that a dragon was a lizard, or a fireball could light a candle.

Five square miles of chest-height seawater, and an underground so saturated with it that any who would attempt to wade across would sink through the muck. The road, or what was left of it, was barely more than quicksand at this point, as perilous to tread as the sludge around it.

Where solid ground started submerging into the waters, a campsite had been erected on the Fereldan side of the marsh. Ash warriors, the famed Mabari-handlers who fought with the battle-rage of ancient dwarves, had made this their encampment from which to watch for Orlesians attempting to cross the manmade swamp. There was a beacon atop a hill close by, logs and thatch prepared to be lit and signal an attack. A man was slumped on the ground as if asleep, halfway between the camp and the beacon.

"We're done here." Alaween, an elf in loose-fitting brown shirt and trousers, his form almost that of a child's, muttered as he started dragging away the Ash Warrior who'd almost made it to the beacon before the blood thickened in his veins; "Toriel, swim back and report to the Captain. We'll hide the bodies and follow."

There was not a speck of blood on him, nor on any of his companions as they cleared away the dead. The Ash Warriors, men and women legendary for their ferocity in battle as well as the bonds they shared with their hounds, lay as if asleep on the ground.

"I never imagined this sort of work when we mustered..." Nesir, one of his comrades cursed, dragging a dead Mabari away by its hind legs; "Thought it'd be scouting or...maybe skirmishing, but _...poisoning_ food and slitting throats, it seems cowardly, no?"

"You'd rather have fought that thing?" Alaween scoffed, glancing at the hound. It could probably have torn his arms off, the way its jaws looked; "Either way, it beats the Alienage."

* * *

Amaranthine was not the first place he'd had in mind, when trying to flee the Circle.

It was, however, the positively _dumbest_ place he could go as mage on the run, and therefore Anders could say, with some decent degree of certainty, that it was also the last place they'd look for him. If he could pride himself on one thing, besides being a great people-person, it was always being one step ahead of the Circle, even if they eventually always seemed to catch him.

In his defense, Phylacteries were kinda cheating.

There was just something genuinely _unfair_ about the Circle being able to track him, based on something as innocent as a bit of blood. Granted, he'd heard about how one of the apprentices, Jowan, had used it to flee the Circle. So, maybe not entirely innocent, but still, his own blood wasn't supposed to betray him, and yet it always did.

At least Ser Ava always seemed to have some new, close-to witty remark when she'd eventually catch up to him. It was also the only time she would ever crack a joke, a feat that on its own was almost worth fleeing the Circle for, just to hear a new one.

Was she planning on it, he wondered?

Was this all some scheme of hers, that he would run away just to give her the chance to crack poor jokes and puns when Greagoir couldn't hear her? The Knight-Commander was a stiffy, if ever he'd met one, and probably wouldn't recognize a joke if it'd run up and bite him in his shiny behind.

No one had laughed when there'd suddenly been a six-foot demon cat on the loose in the Tower. _Not_ that it was his fault, oh no. But at the same time, how could one not find it just a little funny when the very same Templars always going on about how _mages_ were the danger, found themselves torn to shreds by a cute, fluffy little kitten?

He kept his thoughts to himself, wisely, as he wandered the streets of the great city, every corner and alleyway stuffed with refugees and the displaced from Denerim, many no longer having homes they could go back to. It was second only to the capital in size, and took most of the trade from both the Free Marches, Antiva and Rivain. The Howes were the ones in charge, far as he recalled, and apparently also the ones responsible for all the trade. There was a bit of amusing irony there too, in that the same people bringing so much wealth to Ferelden had also tried selling it out to...honestly he wasn't really sure.

To Orlais? They definitely seemed pissy these days, and reason enough for him to get out of dodge. It really wasn't a question of whether they were going to take over, but more of when. Ferelden was in ruin, a proper shithole really, and whether it remained Fereldan or became Orlesian, he knew he'd still be tossed back into the Circle, or even finally be made Tranquil.

He wasn't ashamed to admit the last bit terrified him. A mage who didn't fear to become Tranquil was...well, probably already Tranquil, or just insane. If there was one good thing he could say about Irving - honestly there was actually quite a bit - it would be how he'd almost never made anyone Tranquil, and only those who themselves asked for it.

Those would be the insane ones, actually.

A Templar walked by him, Anders keeping his eyes straight and his walk unchanged. He'd tossed the staff away long ago, of course. What kind of idiot would he, a runaway mage have been, to keep his staff with him in times like these? The damn thing would have given him away on the spot, just like his Circle robes would have done, hence his current outfit being...well, _fit_ , only for beggars.

It wasn't like he could just steal people's clothes, right? Or, well, he _could_ , but it wouldn't really sit well with him. Laughing at events beyond his control was one thing, but actively abusing peoples' trust in clotheslines was something even he could not ever steep so low as to do.

Still, at least his robes hadn't just been tossed in a ditch. He'd sold them to individuals of a rather unsavory character, because quite frankly everyone else would have thrown him at the city guard and called the Templars, people he'd really rather not run into, right about now.

The coin he'd made was going to get him out of this place, out of Ferelden entirely if he could get away with it. There was a ship belonging to those easterners in port, maybe he could make some sort of deal, and get away from Thedas altogether?

"Damn, that'd be swell..."

* * *

The town of Portsmouth was one of the main trade hubs between Ferelden and the Free Marches.

It was comparatively small, when viewed alongside trade ports like Denerim or Amaranthine, and could not boast neither the wealth nor fortifications of Highever or Castle Donnelly either. But it was an industrial harbor, and one of the few dedicated wholly to trade. Its populace of eighteen thousand worked the woodlands and fields around the town, bringing furs and crops to be sold to Marcher traders coming into dock.

Currently, however, it was on fire.

Five hundred meters out from the harbor, two dozen ships had anchored themselves in the shallow waters of the Waking Sea. Sunburst banners flew atop the masts of hulking cogs and frigates, even as trebuchets and ballistae aboard the latter hurled pots of flaming pitch across the distance. They would crack open like rotten eggs in the streets of Portsmouth, spreading fire and death on a scale that went beyond belief.

But the worst were the arrows of howling fire.

They would shoot out from the Orlesian ships, soaring through the air like birds. The terror they brought came when they were close enough that the people of Portsmouth could hear them, the shrieking screams of the unnatural from every single arrow. They were like spears more so, longer than a man's arm, and with a point made of hollow metal that spewed fire from dozens of openings, or simply exploded when they struck and set alight everything and everyone nearby.

Those that struck a person would impale them without pause, burning all the while. Those that did so, and exploded, spread apart the victim with such violence that little remained in place.

Within the very day the bombardment had begun, it came to an end. There was no sigh of relief when the skies no longer rained death upon the people of Portsmouth. Few enough were left alive within its wall to even comprehend that the world was not about to end, and those who had fled did not look back.

The ships sailed on, eastwards through the Wakestrait, leaving only the burning town to lighten up the evening skies.

* * *

 **I could also have titled the chapter "In which both sides get fucked", or "In which the Chantry gives Gaspard a headache."**

 **I'm pretty happy with how it turned out though, though I had to rewrite half of it when realizing some idiotic choices made halfway through. Still, the final product is one I'm sorta comfortable throwing at you :)**


	22. Spirit of River Dane

**As with most of the battles I write, those of you - like me - who find yourself absolute nerds when it comes to history, might recognize the battle taking place in this chapter. A cookie for those who do ;)**

* * *

 **Spirit of River Dane**

* * *

The roads north from Gherlen's Pass, past Castle Dragonmount and between Mulihold and Nankirk, cut through lands that were more sparsely cultivated than the rest of Ferelden. This close to the Frostbacks, the soil was poorer and sported more plantations of pine and spruce.

She'd been there when Maric planted those, almost thirty years back. It'd been his mother's idea, far as she knew, based on the need to have wood and timber on hands for bows, spears and ships. The Empire had plantations aplenty, but it was strange still to see them in this land of natural beauty and feudalism. Hopefully, Imperial influence would convince the nobles of the importance of a strong, centralized government.

She hoped so, otherwise Ferelden would forever be prey to her neighbors, and internal squabbles.

"It's been a while since I wore this kind of armor…" Alma hummed to herself as she walked, silently basking in the warm sun. The dark, gleaming plates of the Imperial Legion fit her well, being purposely easy to adjust to the wearer. The segments slid between each other, surprisingly little friction between them. When the Empire made a suit of armor, they damn well did the job right the first time. She had the helmet pushed back, a mechanism designed as far back as Emperor Reman Cyrodiil's Legions. The heavy steel caused her little to no trouble, and not because of the strength borrowed through blood. The harness simply was that well crafted, putting the weight comfortably around the hip, yet there was bloody all for chafing, a problem the Fereldans still struggled to solve.

She knew, of course, that Gaspard had by now silenced the watch at the northern passage. He always did, never wanting to waste the lives of his men on a static defense at Gherlen's Pass. There'd still be an assault, just to keep Cauthrien where she was, but the man's plans did not even really involve taking on the Fereldan army. He was a strange sort of man, Gaspard. A conquering General made Emperor, who somehow valued the lives of both his own men and those of his foes.

She'd yet to find a memory of him as anything but a man far too honest for the Games of Orlais. It was, however, the truth that he was invading the nation three hundred years of memories had made her home, which in turn meant it was on _her_ to evict him, probably by laying a spanking on his army, or him in in the back of her mind, Hakkon chuckled at the image those thoughts probably conjured.

"You're enjoying this way too much." She snorted, finding some freedom in being able to talk to the thin air, and no one would judge her. Johann was probably going to be ecstatic that she'd basically dumped the apothecary in his lap, but then again he'd always wanted to have his own shop. She'd just given him a...spontaneous promotion, yes. Yes, she could call it that and _not_ feel like she'd thrown her discarded projects at someone way too young to handle it.

Still, all smiles and jokes aside, she knew there was something of a deadline to make. Gaspard would be busy, right now, in laying a bridge over the marsh to let fifteen thousand men across. She had to get to said marsh before said bridge was done, or said Emperor was going to be a real pain in the ass to deal with. _Think you can lend me some speed?_

 _"To hunt as one, finally again?"_

* * *

Phillipe was not much for water, let alone a marsh.

"Do you think it worked?" He whispered, yet was not himself quite sure why. There was no way his voice could have carried louder or further than the ruckus made by half the Orlesian army cautiously making its way across a bridge. It was not so much that he doubted the skill of the military engineers of Orlais, he truly put his faith in them, and the bridge itself seemed solid and sound with stakes hammered deeply into the muck by gravity and big hammers.

He'd seen bridge builders use those before, scaffoldings holding within them large metal hammerheads pulled up by a winch, and dropped by gravity onto poles thicker than he himself could boast. Not that such would have been much of a boast, all things considered.

News had, of course, come in that the main force had been attacked by the flying mages again. He pitied the men down south, knowing they were the sole focus of the Imperials' attention. What was it like, he wondered with some fretting, to find oneself under attack in the open?

The thought struck him, as he steered an anxious Renault over the bridge, that they might well attack them here and now. Thousands of men, exposed on a bridge that offered no cover but the option to jump into waters with a depth he did not know. They could wipe their forces from the face of existence, and they would barely be in danger when doing so. _Charles was right, I should really stop worrying when I cannot change a thing...damn it._

It did not change the fact that he _was_ worried, and near-death so. The Imperials had already struck them in Jader, and now they'd struck the southern column with all the artillery. Most of the Knight-Enchanters were, thank the Maker, with their column, and so intact and unharmed. The Emperor would use them in the front, to cut apart whatever resistance was between them and Denerim, or... maybe swing about south and take them all in the rear!

The thought made him smile, knowing such a blow would cripple any desire to continue the war from the Fereldans, and surely make them oust their heathen puppeteers. They could be back in Orlais again before the year was out, and he could go back to his vineyard and wine kegs. It would be joyous indeed if they could end this with as little bloodshed as possible, though he neither would nor could turn it down should some valley girl offer her services out of sheer gratitude.

Maybe they could stop by the Alienages? His thoughts went back to the other night, when Charles had brought back with him an elven girl, once of the Alienage of Lydes itself, then trained as a mage by the Chantry and the White Spire. He'd been almost dumbstruck, not only by her beauty, but as well by the coincidence. Had his fellow Chevalier deliberately sought out such a beauteous creature, knowing where from she came, or had it been pure happenstance?

Either way, she had made his watch far more enjoyable, and he trusted he'd provided her some relief in what he knew to be a stressful time for those new to campaigns. _Illia_ , a name that rolled off the tongue as easily as she had, of blood-red hair and bluest eyes, such a creature...such a _woman_ , indeed. She had not been quite as shy, once introduced.

He made sure to wipe the smile from his face, ere someone should see and question why he smiled at such a time. Last he'd dared mention to others his preference for elves, he'd been asked whether it was truly their childlike sizes he adored, and he'd promptly learned never to mention it again. Then again, in such a column of men and horses, he doubted many would bother with the smile on one Chevalier's face.

The Emperor himself was leading them, that in itself filling Phillipe with hope and courage. That Gaspard De Chalons was at the head of their force, truly it had to mean he knew they could succeed against these heathens, and save Ferelden's soul before the Chantry lost its patience. He doubted, personally, that a great number of his peers harbored any truly malicious intent towards their valley-cousins. They all knew the Emperor's words, and why they were soon to fight foes from beyond the sea.

He did not look forward to the killing, all the same. Fathers, sons, husbands, he knew them to be just so, and that the wailing of womenfolk and mothers would be on his hands. It was always a terrible thing, to slay your fellow man, and the Emperor was of similar mind, he knew. It was why he had thrown this campaign to begin with, so that they might indeed spare as many lives from the pyres as possible.

The man ahead of him suddenly stopped, nearly causing Phillipe to hit him from behind. Realization struck, that the order to halt had apparently been given whilst his mind had wondered, and he'd missed it when the others had stopped as well. Renault nudged him, as if to chastise him for even stopping when they could instead put feet on dry land.

"Why have we stopped?" Charles muttered behind him, dragging Chevauché by the reins. His charger was slightly smaller than Renault, though no less furious in the charge. Chestnut brown to Renault's grey, they acted like mares when together, a source of never-ending amusement for Charles; "I can't see the head of the column. Phillipe?"

"Neither." He said, stretching his neck to peer above the crowd. A hard thing to do, when most Chevaliers were at least as tall as he, and all had their horses on reins as well. He might as well have tried peering over the shoulders of Qunari, for all it was worth. But, he could see land, and not a single Orlesian on either side of where the bridge should come ashore. Why had the Emperor stopped them, when they were not yet even on dry land? "You up ahead, why have we stopped?"

The question had, it seemed, already been asked by many others, and the answer that came back was mumbled and confused. Some claimed the Fereldan army was ahead, others that it was a single soldier, and some in turn that there was an old woman nagging at the Emperor, face to face.

He really wasn't sure which to believe.

* * *

It'd been a while since she'd faced off with a Chevalier, and time had a way of making you forget just how high up there was when they sat on those damn warhorses. The beast itself towered over her already, easily taller at the shoulder than most horses she'd ever ridden were at the heads. _Right, they do breed them for warfare...kinda forgot about that part._

The man atop the horse could really only be Gaspard himself, considering the sheer amount of _plumage_ he was sporting. Was that a helmet, or was he wearing an armored peacock? Because she couldn't even _count_ the amount of feathers in his hat, figuratively speaking too. The man, the myth, the Emperor of Orlais, was currently probably sporting something like a glare, behind that metal mask of his. Or, maybe he was trying very, _very_ hard to not let it show how amusing this was?

" _I do not think he is amused."_

Well, one could always hope.

"Turn around, Gaspard." She tried her best not to sound like the horse was unnerving her, because damn it all she was a dragon priest...sort of...and shouldn't be scared of a tiny little...well, not so tiny, but still a _horse_ , damn it. She was pretty sure she'd _eaten_ horses at some point; "I won't allow your entrance."

"And who are you, brave Ser Knight, to challenge my forces on your lonesome?" Ah, yeah, that was Gaspard alright. She'd forgotten how damn much she _liked_ his voice, which, really, wasn't a good thing when she was about to bend him over her knee like the misbehaving child he was; "I would at least have the name of one possessing such courage, and then from countryman as well."

"Ask those who came before you, Emperor. Those who tried and failed to hold this land in the past."

She knew, of course, that he couldn't just actually _do_ that. She was being dramatic for the sake of drama, really, and because it might get the message across. Hopefully, or she'd have a serious ache in the morning. She was just damn glad she'd caught them before they crossed the bridge, thank Hakkon, or this would have been a _lot_ more complicated, not to mention messy.

Of course, Gaspard wasn't really sure how to respond to that, so she continued instead.

"I am Alma of the Dane." Hakkon, ever as big a sucker for the audience as she was, lent a shred of power to her voice, so that it boomed just a little louder. Gaspard's horse moved anxiously underneath him, uncertain of what beast could produce such sounds when all there was before it was a knight on foot; "I give you but this final warning, Gaspard. Turn about your armies, and brace them instead for the coming storm."

She waited, then, unsure if it had worked. The problem was, she was pretty sure it was supposed to work, since she didn't remember Ferelden conquered by Orlais a second time. Then again, without the mask her memories became... _fuzzy_ , almost. It was like an addiction she was trying to get rid of, knowledge of the future tainting her actions in the present. Maybe she _should_ have brought the damn thing anyway, but hindsight was apparently being as big a bitch as people oft enough accused her of being.

She hadn't really expected Gaspard to _laugh_ , and judging by the way those at his side turned their heads just a bit to look at him, neither had they. It wasn't even a cruel laugh, but just... _laughter_.

"Oh, I beg your forgiveness, Ser Alma, but...truly, this is a conversation I would genuinely love." He shook his head, as if to dispel his own amusement; "However, sadly I cannot allow you to impede our march. Lay down your weapon, and you will be well treated as my personal guest until the end of this campaign."

Damn it. She'd fucked it up, somehow.

She swore under her breath and closed down the visor of her helmet, sealing herself off for but the two eyeholes and the narrow, vertical slit that allowed her to still draw unhindered breath. She moved backwards, glaive already at the ready. _On the off-chance this goes sideways, and they kill my ass..._

 _"I will guide her well in your absence."_

". _..not what I was gonna ask, but...yeah, thanks."_ Alma smiled, nodding her thanks at the ground; _"Try and keep her from making as big as mess of it as I always end up doing, 'kay?"_

She was aware of Gaspard's eyes on her, even as Chevaliers dismounted and moved forward to seize her, hands on the pommels of their swords.

* * *

Phillipe was not entirely sure what was going on anymore.

It had been only a few minutes, at most, since they had been made to stop, and someone demanded they turn back with a voice loud enough that Renault tried tearing at his reins, though Phillipe held him. The command felt like it carried more authority than even the Emperor himself, a notion he quickly dismissed.

Then the first man came flying past. The people around Phillipe stared, very few of them actually speaking as they watched the Chevalier crashing into the waters, armor and all. To his relief, the man was soon enough able to stand, head above water that seemed not deep enough to drown him. That was something, at least, though it seemed he was unable to actually do a great deal but trudge through the muck.

Then the next man flew past, skipping on the water the first time he struck, then followed the example of his fellow as he found himself stuck in the marsh.

"...Maker's name is going on up there?" Charles swore, turning to the closest of the previously airborne Chevaliers; "What's going on?"

The latest arrival spat out water and shook his head, gasping for air.

"A...a... _something_ is blocking the bridgehead." The soaked man sputtered, making his way for the bridge; "The Emperor wants her taken alive. _Advance_ , damn you!"

* * *

There was once, she would have taken _great_ delight in this.

Alma grabbed the closest Orlesian, a Chevalier in full plate, and flung him back across the marsh. Others, immediately, took his place, closing on her with drawn steel and shields at the ready. She snorted, the steam flowing from her nostrils more for show than anything. She knew it made an impression when the men closest paused, hesitation in their steps. They still lunged at her, aiming to incapacitate but not to kill, since Gaspard had ordered her seized. _Their mistake._

She didn't strike to kill, either, but she didn't actually have to. She had the strength to pick up and throw about soldiers like they were little but dolls. It was, of course, mostly Hakkon's influence, but in the eyes of the Orlesians there was no dragon, just an old woman delivering the spanking of the Age. Raising an arm, she blocked a sword strike on the back of her armored forearm before delivering a kick to the man's chest plate. It threw him back, through his fellows and into the waters of the marsh. She doubted it would drown him, unless he was _really_ unlucky, but then again his luck hadn't really been much to boast of considering he was getting his ass handed to him by a woman old enough to be his...

" _Perhaps you should focus, rather than conjure up semantics..."_

Well, she _was_ focusing. Hakkon just clearly didn't understand the concept of multitasking. Both hands grasping the ornamented wood of her glaive, she delivered a blow to the men before her. They not so much were forced back as blown away, the impact setting alight the air itself.

Gaspard seemed better at keeping his cool than she would have expected. He was watching her throwing around his men like they were dolls, and even making them retreat on the bridge itself. She felt like grinning, just a little, as she took the first step onto the bridge _his_ men had built. Again she swung, and battered away the men who tried to enter _her_ land. After centuries in the valley, Ferelden was as much her homeland as High Rock and the Empire had ever been. Almost more so, even, for there was probably no place for her in Tamriel anymore.

She stepped further onto the bridge, taking the space previously occupied by the men now struggling to wade in the muck, or outright incapacitated. She didn't think she'd killed anyone yet, but...if she did, she could live with it.

She'd done far worse things throughout the years anyway, than killing invading soldiers.

She swatted again, and again, dozens of men briefly acquiring the ability to fly. She felt the blood _singing_ in her veins, boiling and rushing at the thrill of the fight. She took step after step, soldiers before her now backing away or jumping into the marsh. Still she advanced, tossing them aside like flies. She used no magic, at least none that they could have seen, but for the iron-hard muscles that coiled underneath red-scaled skin, concealed by Imperial plate and mail. To these men, she was a monster, a predator that wandered amongst her prey. She struck, again and again as the taste of blood was on her tongue, coating her lips and bringing her to the point of euphoria.

The soldiers of Orlais melted away before her, men and horses jumping the bridge for the safety of the swamp. She paid them no heed, eyes forward instead as she walked on. Chevaliers were yet before her, those vaunted horsemen who sought to trample Ferelden underfoot.

For once, the men before her did not simply leap for safety. Instead they stood their ground, swords drawn. They still reeked of fear, the terror so deep in their bones that it threatened to leak. She paused, cocking her head at them like a bird of prey before defenseless mice. Were they anything but, in the end?

* * *

Phillipe was certain he had soiled himself.

At first, they had no idea what was going on, only that the men at the front were being thrown from the bridge as if by giants, and yet there was nothing to see over their heads, but the relentless, ceaseless work of a glaive making its rounds.

Each time the weapon came up, gleaming red in the sun before it struck again, he could see men jumping from the bridge, rather than face its wielder. He'd thought them cowards, in truth. That they would flee before a single, lonesome foe would forever shame a Chevalier.

As more and more men and horses were sent afloat, he'd looked to Charles, seeing his comrade with sword drawn, mount's reins forgotten. He'd mirrored him, drawing steel himself in preparation for when, or if, the foe reached them. What had happened to the Emperor, who surely was still up ahead? His heart sank with trepidation and worry, for what was to become of them if the Emperor was slain?

"No matter what, Phillipe, we hold." Charles said, his voice betraying his dread; "Stand with me, _Ami_."

Ahead, men were thrown through the air left and right, as if the work of some macabre peasant's scythe. Phillipe swallowed, his shield before him as he made to stand. They were last in line before the common soldiers, he knew, and found in that realization a deeper purpose. They were defending not only their own lives, but also the honor of the Chevalier, to protect the people. The men behind him were peasants and commoners, few of them true professional soldiers. Most of the professional regulars were with the southern force, and these were but people who had never before worn mail nor held a sword.

It was nonetheless a fact that he felt his breeches soak the closer whatever monster this was came. The screams of his countrymen seemed without end, broken only as they landed in the marsh, dead or alive, it was impossible to tell but for broken bodies and chest plates dented inwards.

And then those before them leapt for their lives, abandoning horse and honor. They crashed into the marsh, and started wading for the other shore already before the foam had stilled. And Phillipe felt his knees weaken at the sight before them.

A solitary warrior, a monster from legends bathed in blood. Steam rolled from its helmet, eyes hidden away behind steel yet managed to betray savagery beyond what a human should hold. Blood dripped from every surface, and pieces of flesh and skin were yet stuck to the blade of the glaive in its hands. The man or woman or demon in disguise cocked its head, in a manner much too similar to when a bird would find its prey curious, before tearing it to shreds.

The monster - 'Alma' it had called itself - took a step forward, a deep, inhumane chuckle echoing from within its helmet. Renault bolted, not that he could blame the beast, preferring the uncertain waters of the marsh for the certain death his master now stood before.

"In the Maker's name, back you beast!" Charles was the first to swing, his blade coming down upon the monster faster than Phillipe's eyes could track. A dull _thwack_ resounded, and Charles simply froze where he stood, his sword's blade caught in the closed fist of his foe. He kicked it instead, close enough and with enough force that it would have sent any man staggering.

It only seemed to give offense, and the monster's response was brutal. A hand gripped Charles' leg with such force that Phillipe could see the plate twist and buckle under the strain. Charles screamed, even as his foe dragged him up by the leg and started bashing him against the walkway like a flail over grain. Phillipe rushed the monster, sword drawn and intent on saving his comrade. He was instead bashed aside, and felt the world spinning before cold waters submerged him, dragging him down into darkness and muck.

When he came to, and managed to drag himself above the darkness, Charles had been discarded on the bridge, and the monster had stepped over his, Phillipe prayed, merely unconscious body to instead approach the commoners. They showed courage beyond their betters, standing their ground even as the shits of terror soiled their legs. They carried mostly spears, though the demon in the shape of a woman seemed to care little, batting them aside before tearing into their ranks.

Phillipe was near struck in the head with a spear as its wielder was tossed aside, and found himself grasping it out of naught but instinct. It was a weapon, and his own was lost in the mud and muck of this unnatural marsh. As he watched with dread the beast going through the commoners, inspiration struck that was as insane as could be, and yet he was unable to push it away. He started wading, not away from the bridge but straight for it, spear in hand. _Andraste guide my aim, I will only have the one chance!_

He made it to the bridge, and underneath it, without the monster above turning on him. Was she truly so confident that this never registered as a threat? Whatever the cause might be, Phillipe knew he could wait no longer. He placed himself underneath where the armored terror wandered, and thrust the spear upwards, through the gap in the planks.

* * *

"They're here!"

Cauthrien ran along the ramparts as the call echoed across the Pass. Her chainmail rattled underneath the plates, her gambeson feeling as if soaked with sweat in the early evening. She stopped at the gatehouse, out of breath as the lookout pointed to the hills ahead. She could see them now, the militia's beacons burning brightly on the hills of the next ridge.

Orlais would be here within the next few hours, she realized, and felt awfully cold at that thought. She swallowed, willing herself to think of Loghain and King Maric, and how they had faced Orlais and won. Legate Khaok was suddenly beside her, helmet donned and sword and shield at the ready. He also had her sword, the Summer sword that had cut both men and demons of the Fade.

She took it, nodding her thanks as she sheathed the claymore at her side. Her skin crawled, jitters shooting through her body and mind at the thought of what was to come. They had prepared as best they could, with what they had, and now came the time to test if they'd done enough, or if it'd all been for naught.

"Get the men into position."

She wasn't sure if she even spoke the words, or if the Legate simply knew what to do. She couldn't hear her own voice for the pounding of her heart, stuck somewhere in her throat. The Orc started bellowing orders, his voice so loud she wouldn't be surprised if the Orlesians heard him and thought the orders meant for them. Cauthrien grasped the wooden battlements, digging the metal of the outermost finger's protective scale into the wood. All this felt far too familiar, far too much like the battle of Denerim.

She'd failed, back then. Failed in her charge to keep them from breaching the second gate, and the Grey Wardens had taken over in her stead, and lost their leader as a result. Grey Wardens were meant to fight and die in Blights, but all the same the blame was on her, even if no one dared speak of it.

And now, she was to be tested once more, against yet another foe with numbers far surpassing what she could boast. Five thousand Legionaries, professional soldiers to a man, would be the core of her forces. Roughly two thousand of her own countrymen, the sum total survivors from the regular, Royal Army that had once held tens of thousands of soldiers. The Blight had bled them out, and now the fraction that remained might see themselves slaughtered and trampled underneath the armored, spiked hooves of the Chevaliers' chargers.

Men ran about, grasping spears, shields and swords from racks. The Fereldan soldiers had been made to work in their armor throughout the day, with the knowledge that they might not have the time once Gaspard was upon them. Down below the ramparts, the first lines of trenches were left unfilled. They were meant to halt Gaspard's cavalry, once they made it across the perimeter ditch. Because they _would_ make it across the perimeter ditch, no matter how deep or wide or steep they made it, it would only be a matter of when, not if.

She watched the valley sides with curling toes, as militia from the nearby villages and towns milled about between the trees, all with either bow, sling or crossbow in hand. They had sorted them as such, putting those who were kin together rather than parting them based on their weapons. They had dug out the already steep sides as well, making it all the harder for when Khaok had argued against it, and she knew his points were valid, but at times you couldn't tell a Mabari when to sit and when to bark.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't understood the metaphor.

At her sides, men in steel and iron lined up with bows in hand. She stepped back and allowed a Legionary to fill in the spot she'd occupied, opting instead for the better view of the gatehouse. Along the ramparts, the artillery pits were crewed as Imperials in gambesons and mail turned crank and levers, rolling boulders and firepots into place. Spears longer than her body were placed in their slides, and boxes upon boxes of the shorter bolts were stacked against their intended machines, ready for use.

Slowly, the trenches beneath were filled as well. Men with pikes and crossbows took their positions within, the former behind the latter in every trench. The pikes were for if and when Orlais came close enough, and would purchase time for the missile troops to reload or retreat, the latter an eventual guarantee. They could retreat along paths every soldier had been made to know by heart, steering them between the fields of caltrops and arcane mines laid down by the battlemages of the Legion. Softly glowing, they were barely visible even though she knew where they had been lain.

And then, silence.

It wasn't an ordered silence, nor a commanded or instigated one. Instead, it was simply the silence of men and women who no longer had anything to do but wait. Cauthrien drew her blade again, studying the edges of nicks and scratches before sheathing it.

Soon enough, she knew, it was be buried in the guts of some Chevalier or common foot soldier, the latter probably some peasant a hundred miles from home, levied to fight in a war he did not understand. She would be cutting them down by the dozens, as was the wont when poorly equipped peasant soldiers met the knights of their foes. It was a law of warfare, that the strong did what they could, and the weak suffered what they must. She would leave bereft mothers, wives, children and parents.

Only the creaking of the trebuchets' arms being drawn back broke the silence, a constant almost like the wind, or the drumming of the rain on a roof. She tapped her fingers against the stabled logs of the battlements, the motion becoming an idle dance of repetition. Men coughed, shifting on their feet where they stood. There were entire barrels stuffed with arrows at regular intervals, all along the ramparts. Hundreds of barrels, with thousands of arrows in sum.

They had raised platforms along the palisade walls, where men and women in robes and hoods now hurried to place themselves, the battlemages of the Legion at the ready. She had no true idea of the destructive powers at their disposal, only that they had made the ramparts and dug the trenches, albeit it had taken time, with just gestures of their hands. They had managed to dig and build what she knew could never had been achieved without magic in so limited a timespan.

Legate Khaok was still at her side, a mountain of muscle and steel. She had never felt such strange relief in the company of someone so utterly nonhuman. She couldn't say if it was his sheer size and strength, or the calm, professional air he seemed to exhale with every breath.

"Are you with me?" she whispered more than spoke the question, unsure if her voice would even pass her lips. Was she afraid? Yes, definitely. Loghain had once said that courage was not the absence of fear, but to strive against the fear, and become victorious despite it. The Imperials had a similar saying, but she liked to remember Loghain's words, and take some comfort in the way his presence would persist, even after his murder. Legate Khaok snorted at her side, nostrils flaring like a bull's.

"To the death, General."

* * *

 **I will be honest; I had no intentions of making this chapter as long as it ended up being. Don't get me wrong, I love long chapters as much as anyone, but they're a right pain to write at times. This one though...Phillipe's segments just flowed, Alma's were funny as hell to write, and I always love anything with the Legion.**


	23. Fire and Fury

**Fire and Fury**

* * *

Belisarius had turned his offered chamber into the de-facto war room of the Palace. Maps had replaced the various paintings that once decorated the walls, and vases and furniture had retreated in favor of tables and chairs with even more maps draped upon, and ledgers detailing troop numbers and positions and equipment. A tome as thick as his clenched fist was dedicated solely to the logistics of the supply trains, most of it completely unintelligible to him as of yet. The Banns wrote in Chantry script, after all, an old habit no one saw a need for to die.

Still, he could take some pride in being able to organize this much, whilst simultaneously being nigh unable to move. His hands had more or less recovered, at least. It meant he was able to read the reports from his subordinates, and actually _eat_ without aid. The latter had been a particular embarrassment, for a man in his age so well beyond infancy. Currently however, food was not on his mind, rather it was the state of Ferelden's readiness. He was still waiting for the Palace librarian to bring him the numbers Constanta was supposed to lead to the front.

The doors opened up barely a minute later, though it was not the old librarian that stood before him, but rather Centurion Pullo.

"General, a... _report_ from Legate Constanta." The man was out of breath, clutching a piece of parchment in his hand. Belisarius frowned, beckoning the man closer to hand it over. It was sealed with black ribbon, the same as the last report they'd received on the troop build-up in Jader. No wonder then, that the man was red-faced and struggled to breathe; "It's urgent."

The General nodded, unfolding the scroll. Any joy he might have had at being capable of such an action now was squashed, trashed and stomped upon with armored soles. His skin grew cold enough that he shivered, and for a moment he felt his heart cease beating. Anxiously licking his lips, he glanced up at Pullo.

"...is this accurate?" the seal had been unbroken, so of course the man likely didn't even know what it was about. For once, he'd have liked Pullo to read his messages, just for the sake of confirmations; "Dear gods..."

"Sir?"

"A fleet of warships is raiding the northern coastline, headed eastwards..." It was Legate Constanta's handwriting, immaculate as always and yet the urgency in her letters was easily betrayed; "It flies the Sunburst banner, not the Orlesian one."

"Is that different, General?" Pullo remained where he stood, at ease but his expression troubled and confused; "Orlais serves the Chantry, doesn't it?"

"All previous reports on Gaspard de Chalons indicated the invasion being his way of avoiding the Chantry getting involved in this mess..." Belisarius growled; "Damn the Daedra, that old _bitch_ is slaughtering her way along the coast. They're bombarding and burning everything from Portsmouth and onwards..."

"How many ships, General?"

"The Legate doesn't say, probably no survivors had the mindfulness to actually stop and count...but a great deal seemed like transports..." he sighed, feeling the years suddenly pressing down. How had he not considered this an option? He was loathe to admit to having underestimated the Chantry yet again, but damn it all he'd never thought they would stoop this low; "Get a message to the Aviatorii, have them return to Soldier's Peak. And get word to whatever ships haven't returned to Tamriel yet..."

"...General, wouldn't withdrawing the Aviatorii remove one of the best chances we have of holding the Pass?"

Belisarius merely glared, not requiring such a speech. He knew full well himself what this would mean for the odds of his men at the Pass, but if the Chantry's ships got through to Denerim, the city was as well as defenseless. Its entire garrison was either at Gherlen's Pass or on its way to link up with Constanta. Only his own Evocatii guards remained, and skilled as they were, he knew they could not hold a city.

His eyes fell on one of the maps of Ferelden in its entirety, scanning for an advantage, any edge the geography could give them. They fell, eventually, on the strait of Crabbersey. After the Wakestrait, it was the only narrow passage the Orlesian ships would have to penetrate, and the only chance they'd have of catching them out.

"I am well aware of the what this means for the Pass." And for his men, who likely by now would pray to the visage of their prized Aviatorii, ruling the skies; "Spread the word for every seafaring ship we have, Fereldan too, to head for Amaranthine. We'll use the ships to hold the Chantry's forces, and hit them from behind with the Aviatorii."

"...as you say, General." There was hesitation in the Centurion's voice, of course. The man knew as well as himself what was to come now, when they took away the Emperor's finest from the front.

* * *

The silence seemed unwilling to end, even as the first Orlesian banners entered the field of view of those manning the ramparts, and those in the trenches soon thereafter.

It was an army that seemed without end, as if the attacks of the Aviatorii had never even occurred. Cauthrien swallowed, making sure her feet did not skid on the dirty boards of the gatehouse. On each side, three rows of archers stood, Imperial and Fereldan both. They were ready to fire, even though she could see in those closest to her, the dread that mounted as the true force of Orlais was made to be seen.

"I guess it _is_ one thing to hear about it..." she muttered, fingers tightly locked on the pommel of her sword. The rest was left unsaid, though the Orc beside her nodded, his own posture like mountain awaiting the storm. She could not see the end of the Orlesian banners, only the veritable forest they seemed to constitute. Blue and red and white and green, it was as if the Imperial Highway had become a rainbow. How many thousands were aligned against them, she wondered? How many men did Gaspard have for every one they had managed to muster? Four? Ten? "At least we won't have to worry about their siege weapons...Gaspard _can't_ have managed to make new ones, not this quickly."

"We can only hope." Legate Khaok nodded, thick brows furrowed as he watched the enemy; "They've stopped, just beyond range of the trebuchets. We can still hit them with the battlemages, doubt they're aware of _that_."

"Maybe..." Cauthrien squinted, eyes rowing over the ranks of Orlesian men-at-arms. She'd hoped for a averagely armed and organized peasant mob, but it seemed Gaspard was at least doing them the service of taking them seriously, and had brought out the professional soldiers of Orlais. She was surprised to find only one mounted within sight, the man at the head of the army. Had Gaspard left his Chevaliers at home? No, no they had reports of them being in Jader, she knew that much. So, dismounted them then?

Considering how much they'd done to prepare for cavalry, it almost felt like an insult.

The sole mounted Orlesian kicked his horse into a slow trot, and approached their end of the Pass, the rest of the force left behind where they stood. Cauthrien gestured for the men to hold their fire, just on the miraculous off-chance that Orlais had reconsidered, and wanted to call an end to things.

Shooting the messenger full of arrows, then, would be in rather poor taste.

The man was not Gaspard, though she'd not really thought it possible either. When he stopped his horse, he was close enough that she could tell they were dealing with something like a general, though she'd no notion of whether it was true. His horse seemed anxious at the deep ditch before it, though not that she could blame the animal.

"I am Jean-Orleis LaRue, General and emissary of his Excellency Gaspard de Chalons the Uplifter, Emperor of Orlais, Sovereign of the Dales and Protector of the Faith." She briefly debated with herself whether she was even going to bother remembering those titles. Fancy as they were, they were as meaningful as the jewelry nobility decorated themselves with, and mattered little in the here and now; "On behest of his Excellency, I am to speak on his behalf."

"I am Mariam Cauthrien, General of Ferelden's armed forces. What does your Emperor have to say, that concerns a people not his own?" Cauthrien called out. There was at least two hundred meters from the ramparts to the first ditch, and the wind only carried one way.

"His Excellency extends one final chance for the heathens to abandon Thedas, and return to their own lands. There will be made no pursuit, nor attempts at sabotage. His Excellency does not wish for more blood to be shed than already has been, and is willing to extend the hand of peace, provided the Empire evicts itself from Ferelden, and the Anderfels."

She glanced to the Legate at her side, the Orc merely snorting.

"We're ordered to stand and fight, and so we shall." He groused, spitting through one of the openings in the woodwork. Cauthrien nodded, again relieved at the loyalty and steadfastness of the Legion. They were not abandoning them, and there mere notion was almost laughable at this point; "The mandate stands, General."

"The Legion will not be withdrawing from Ferelden, I'm afraid." She shouted back, and laughter rose from the men around and beneath her; "Return to your Emperor, and tell him Ferelden fears him not."

There was no reply, though the laughing persisted as the Orlesian turned his horse about. Murmurs that sounded more melodic than mere laughter started rising from the trenches, and soon enough the Imperials around her too, had joined in the humming, leaving their Fereldan counterparts shaking their heads. Cauthrien, as well confused, turned to the Orc beside her. The monster of a man grinned, fangs and canines.

" _Oh brothers, do you still believe in one another?_

 _Oh sisters, do you still believe in love, I wonder?_

 _Oh, if the sky comes falling down for you,_

 _There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do."_

They were actually _singing_? Cauthrien stared, uncertain of how to even react, a response she saw mirrored in many a countryman. Most, however, seemed uplifted at the tunes, and the power in the words. It felt as if those who sang it knew them to be true, and not mere metaphors.

The brass trumpets of the Legion now added to the choir, producing something she'd never quite felt before. She could feel her skin tingling with what could as well have been real excitement, and the fear and dread evaporated from her heart.

" _What if we're far from home, at planes found in no tome?_

 _Oh, brothers we will hear you call. Vengeance will be paid._

 _What if we lose it all?_

 _Oh, sisters we come to you aid!_

 _Oh, even should the sky come apart on you,_

 _There's nothing in this world we cannot do!"_

The Orlesian had halted his mount, almost at his own men now, and seemed confused. She could have laughed at how he probably thought this something _she_ had planned. Most laughable, though, was the fact that the Orc at her side could actually sing.

" _Oh Brothers, are your swords sharper than your tongues?_

 _Oh Sisters, will you stand with us, will you be strong?_

 _And if Dagon comes for us-_

 _He would have to face us all and see his loss!"_

She had no idea what, or whom Dagon was, but for someone or something to have a place in song, it was likely yet another foe the Legion had bested. The song ended, tuning from uniform voices into a rabble of cheers and jeers, and the men around her previously stout and silent, now openly mocked their enemies with rude gestures and ruder words. The bashing of swords on shields and the stomping of feet was loud as thunder and lightning, and would probably have seen her thrown from a horse, had she dared be mounted on the ramparts.

"...does the Legion always sing before a battle?"

"Not always." The Legate admitted, smiling through bared fangs as long and thick as her thumbs; "But it helps morale, and confuses the enemy. Sometimes."

"I see..." she supposed she did, at that. Music and song had a way of inspiring people, but she'd never thought the Legion would ascribe to the notion quite so fervently. Ahead, the Orlesians were bringing up ladders and planks, clearly intending on nullifying the ditch as best they could, likely ignorant of its true purpose; "They're forming up for an assault on the ditch...should we start bombarding them?

"Not yet." There was little surprise in his voice when she asked him for directions. Much of how they had chosen to defend this place was drawn from Imperial doctrines, and she'd rather have the acknowledgement of one more familiar with them than she; "It'll be more effective if we wait until they're crossing it in solid numbers."

Four hundred meters ahead, the first Orlesian soldier slid down the sides of the ditch, dropping faster than he'd expected to. The sparsely grassy sides were slick and wet with an odor that betrayed the pitch soaked into the soil. The bottom of the ditch was a low canal of black liquids, rain and pitch mixing with the bottom-layer of tar.

More and more soldiers joined him in the muck, pushing ladders up the sides. Others started rolling logs into the ditch, building up something like a foundation for an actual bridge. Cauthrien watched them toil away with a grim sense of certainty. She knew many of them probably understood what they were wading around in, what kind of muck now soaked their clothes and stuck to their armor. Officers remained at the top of the ditch, making sure not to slip and drop in while shouting orders for the men already down there.

"Do you think they're suspecting?" she asked

"Of course they are." Khaok scoffed; "Only a fool wouldn't recognize pitch, but officers aren't always made so on their brains...to be fair, it's not entirely foolish. We can't throw firepots that far, so they're not wrong, usually. Might think they caught us before we got archers in place with fire arrows..."

"Except they are." She muttered, glancing to the mages on their platforms, awaiting orders she would have to give. It was a weird feeling, being the one to order the first true strike in a battle. Prior to it, deaths could still be avoided. More and more now, the ditch was filling up with soldiers, though the army itself remained where it was, wisely staying where it believed itself safe; "Wait until they've got ladders all along the ditch... then give the order."

Minutes passed by in silence, though now the background was an echo of toiling men, working as fast as their hands could grasp ladders increasingly slick with the black pitch of Ferelden's marshes. One by one, the tips of ladders started protruding from the ditch, and the ever-going dumping of logs into the ditch soon enough made it possible for planks to be laid and hammered down, bridging the gap in earnest that the ditch had created.

The soldiers in the ditch cheered, believing they had overcome weeks of work in a matter of minutes, proving their superiority by sheer tenacity, and relief that the dark substances they had waded through had not yet caught fire. On the ramparts, the men remained silent, all with some knowledge of what awaited those in the ditch, and those about to cross it.

Cauthrien, too, kept her lips a thin, pursed line as she watched the Orlesian army advance. True to her assumptions, they maintained ranks. Their march was uniform and precise, their uniforms and armor alike and akin, much as they themselves had begun to institute. She wasn't blind to how their general, the man whose name she could not be bothered to remember, remained mounted as a rock in the stream of soldiers, pointedly not leading them himself.

As they reached the ditches and started either mounting the ladders or simply crossing the bridge, Cauthrien turned to the Orc at her side.

"Now."

Wordless, the order was a mere gesture of the Legate's hand to one of the battlemages. They each seemed to specialize in their fields, though all retained proficiency in the roles of the others. The battlemage focused on fiery spells could as such also throw about frost and lightning, but far less efficiently so than his peers.

Rather than meeting her expectations of fireballs streaking through the air, the mage swept his hands in a broad, slow arc before him. Ahead, she could trace his movements by how a pillar of fire suddenly sprang from the ground within the ditch, immediately gripping pitch and men alike. It was like a demonic finger of fire, tracing the ground like a child would draw its finger through the sands of a beach.

The man's spell spread, merciless and uncaring as the assault that had mere moments ago seemed so full of vigor and cheer, now became a frantic escape for those still in the ditch, and a complete halt for those yet to make the crossing. Those who had already made it across froze in their tracks, making distance from the ditch yet seemed unable or unwilling to fully abandon those within. Soon enough, the ditch was a wall of fire from one end to the other, and hundreds of soldiers had become trapped on the wrong side of it.

Cauthrien only had to nod, and the fire mage once more swept his arms across the fields before him. This time, it was not a wall of fire that assaulted those at the Legion's mercy, but rather dozens of strange, almost demonic figures wrought as if from fire and ashes. They danced through the air, almost as if skating on the ground on trails of smoldering grasses, near-female in appearance. Almost lazily, they swirled around the entrapped soldiers, maintaining their distances as fireballs leapt from their hands like a child throwing apples.

When it was made apparent that no aid would come from beyond the wall of fire and screams, the Orlesians sallied out and engaged the fiery specters. She watched them overcome their fear of the demonic foes, assaulting and cutting and thrusting with swords and spears and halberds. They almost managed a cheer when one went down, only for it to becomes screams of agony and fear as the atronach's form exploded in a ball of fire, spreading outwards to consume all those around it.

Had a bard told of their final stand, it might have been made out to be courageous, a defiant fight to the end for men who knew escape was not an option. The reality was a stark contrast, however, of men running for the ramparts, waving their arms around as they shouted and begged for mercy, before flames engulfed them and became as candles flickering about on the fire-scorched ground.

Nearly an hour later, as the flames in the ditch burned themselves out, all that remained of those who had managed the crossing was ashes. Those who had not yet attempted the crossing could only watch in horror as a gust of wind blew even that much away, and only the scorched ground betrayed what had been wrought on their compatriots.

"First strike goes to us." The Legate muttered; "They're probably not going to underestimate us like that again."

"The army would rebel if their general tried forcing them over the ditch again..." Cauthrien nodded; "They don't know it's a one-time thing...it _is_ , isn't it?"

"Unless they let us fill it up again, it's a one-time trick, yeah." The Orc said, arms crossed; "Now we just have to wait and see what they'll do. Can't flank us, unless they're willing to go south of the Frostbacks, or somehow sneak past those Ash Warriors of yours up north. They're gonna have to go at it here, which means we get to sit around and wait for them to make the next move."

"So...we wait, basically." She sighed, leaning on the battlements; "Right...have the trebuchet crews fire some markers, just so we're sure the wood haven't warped from the strain."

It was hardly surprising, yet for some reason she'd half expected the Orlesians to swamp them as quickly and with as little regard for lives as the Darkspawn had with Denerim. Of course, human beings were less inclined to throwing themselves into such a meat grinder, and would probably do what they could to lessen casualties.

It had been surreal, months back, to discover Orlais in the preparations of an invasion. Even more so now, however, when she could see the tens of thousands of soldiers at the other end of the mountain pass. This was where Tevinter in ages past had laid down their Highway, and it was the only path they could take that would allow their cavalry passage.

What nagged her about that certainty, however, was that she'd seen not a single Chevalier, bar their general. She glanced to the northern beacon, the pyre still unlit but manned. There'd been no reports of an attempted crossing of the marsh, and the Ash Warriors would have lit the beacons at the mere sight of enemy forces across the waters.

"General Cauthrien!" she turned around at the yell, finding an approaching rider only just now slowing down from gallop. The horse seemed near death underneath him, as did the rider himself when he dismounted. The man shone with sweat, breathing ragged as he forced himself to stand straight, his arms not even managing the salute; "Rep...rep...ort, from Legate Con... _stanta_."

She frowned, trying to recall the officer in question. It didn't take her more than a moment, remembering the Legate as the woman in charge of gathering up the last remaining forces from the Bannorns, and marching them to Gherlen's Pass.

"Get this man some wine!" she shouted to those nearby, hopeful that some would take it as personal incentive. Turning back to the rider, she took his shoulder and made sure he did not fall; "What is it?"

"Gen..." he swallowed hard, pausing for a second to catch his breath. She'd rarely seen a man so red-faced and ragged; "There's a Chantry fleet burning the coastal settlements. Everything from Portsmouth to the tip is already burning."

The blood ceased in her veins, froze and then promptly turned to ashes as he spoke. _The Chantry? No, no there has to be another explanation. The Chantry would only...but...if they...Maker's Breath, no..._

"Are...are you certain, that this is the Chantry?"

"I...I...General, I'm not..."

"Dammit soldier, answer the question!" Khaok cut in, the force of his voice nearly sending the man on his ass. The rider, his skin suddenly pale, swallowed and stammered, unmanned entirely by the Orc's ferocity.

"They all fly the Sunburst banner, General." She felt her heart stop, and nearly shatter. The tears that welled in her eyes, she couldn't tell if it was grief or anger. The Chantry, _the Divine_ , they truly given up on Ferelden then? They actually considered the Empire's aid grounds for an Exalted March? The men around her, those close enough to have heard, began their muttering and swearing, the Fereldans among them slumping to the ground in dismay; "It's an entire fleet, half of it transports deep enough in the waters to carry thousands of men. General Belisarius is recalling the Aviatorii, and has already ordered Legate Constanta's forces redirected to intercept a predicted full assault on Highever and Amaranthine."

"Malakath's balls..." Khaok growled, punching his open palm; "Damn it!"

Cauthrien fought to breathe, her vision little but a fog. The Chantry had turned on them. The Divine had declared them heretics to a man. All of Andrastian Thedas would soon descend upon them in a rampage of rape and pillaging, with the sanctioning of the Divine herself.

Her fingers touched on the pendant around her neck, a golden sunburst medallion. Scarcely conscious of her own actions, she tore the piece from her neck, snapping the string it was fastened to, and threw it to the ground like the mere piece of metal it apparently was in the eyes of the Chantry.

The rider stared at her, then at the sunburst on the ground, and then back at her again. She couldn't read the expression on his face;

"So...we will receive no reinforcements then."

She breathed, fighting to blink away the tears hindering her vision. The men would soon enough know, even those out of earshot. Would they lose all hope, or fight with even greater determination, now that it seemed all the world would come in arms upon them?

"Very well." She nodded, mostly to herself; "Relay to the Legate that we wish her the best in her endeavors, and to General Belisarius that the orders are received." She turned to the Orc, the monstrous man a fuming mass of steel, fangs and muscle, murder in his eyes; "We will make our stand with what we have, and hope your gods are with us. It seems ours can no longer be counted upon."

She nearly laughed through the tears, even as the rider nodded and took off. For if the Maker would allow this, for his supposed devotees and representatives to slaughter the faithful and the innocent...

How was he any better than the foreign gods?

* * *

 **Or "In which Cauthrien finally loses her shit, realizing that Loghain was actually too trusting of the people across the Frostbacks" but that'd have been a way too long title.**

 **Honestly when I first started planning for this conflict, years back, I never thought it'd be _this_ dirty.**


	24. Humanity Abandoned

**Humanity Abandoned**

* * *

Alma groaned, opening her eyes to the insides of a small, heavily reinforced cage.

It wasn't the first time she'd woken up in chains. Of course, usually the regaining of consciousness wasn't paired with the worst _actual_ pain in the ass imaginable. She felt the hard wood underneath her, through what felt like they'd stripped her of everything but a roughspun gown, definitely not her own.

She wasn't entirely conscious of what had happened on the bridge, mostly because she'd kinda sorta lost her mind in the bloodrage, and Hakkon, being his usual, sentimental self, hadn't seen fit to drag her back out of it. Because of that, and she was not going to let him just get away with such a fucking slipup, her ass now hurt the worst since she'd gone through childbirth...what exactly had happened?

She would have felt the wounds herself, if not for the fact that her hands - and feet, actually - were clasped up and cuffed in the kind of iron you'd reserve for Qunari on rage-inducing mushrooms. Should she be flattered or pissed off, that they perceived her as such a physical threat that it'd probably never entered the minds of anyone in power whether or not she was a mage too? _Damn it, mages in Thedas set the bar low..._

Still, she wasn't going to add the cuffs to her list of complaints, not when her ass hurt too much for her to even try and crack a joke about it. A glance around was enough to betray her location as the insides of a tent, and that was pretty much as extensive as she could make a visual deduction. The design of the tent meant she was in a military camp, though, and the amount of noise around it meant she wasn't in some backwater prison camp, but with the forces Gaspard had led across the marsh. Probably.

How far had the Orlesians advanced into Ferelden since she was knocked out? If Gaspard had made it across the Dane, there was little chance for them to mount an effective defense, the sheer difference in numbers considered. The Legion was the most powerful fighting force on the planet, but they were still only _one_ Legion. Five thousand against thirty thousand, she could see no way it was going to end well if they couldn't get the damn mask-fetishists bottlenecked.

The problem was, if Gaspard wasn't going for the fast route to Denerim, it was just as likely he was going to hit the Legion in the back. Whilst she wasn't sure even _that_ would be enough to break Legionaries, it was almost definitely going to rout the Fereldans, leaving the soldiers of Tamriel in an even worse position than before. _Why did I not just light the damn beacon when I got here?_

She knew why, of course. It'd been arrogance on her part, to think she could actually convince Gaspard to turn his men around with a display of overwhelming power. Being the actual goddamn "Spirit of River Dane", there was something of a name to uphold, even if she hadn't introduced herself as such. The hope really had just been that Gaspard would think her not the only one of Ferelden's defenders possessing of such might, and simply find the venture to gain him more bodies than results.

She'd fucked _that_ one up, apparently. And she couldn't really blame anyone but her own goddamn sense of superiority, no matter how much it really was goddamn earned. Alma glanced back down at the shackled, considering whether she should simply break them apart and escape. The thought holding her back, was that Gaspard had still bothered with capturing her alive, rather than simply decapitating her unconscious ass when he had the chance. She might still yet be able to turn him from his notions of conquest.

Half an hour later, at least by her estimates, the tent's entrance was pulled aside, and her assumptions of his interest were proven correct. The Emperor himself stepped inside, motioning for the guards to leave them be. It wasn't really like _that_ was going to give him privacy, considering anyone outside the tent could perfectly well hear anything going on within. It was probably just for show, which in turn begged the question why he even bothered.

Alma pulled herself into a more relaxed seat, well aware of her every movement being watched by more than just Gaspard's eyes. Seconds later, a servant entered as well, carrying a chair with cushions on it. He left it there, ordered out again with a wave of the Emperor's hand.

"Hey Gaspard." She started out before he'd even managed to open his mouth, knowing full well that taking the initiative would rob him of some confidence. She might as well ease him into the realization that he wasn't really going to be holding onto her for a second longer than she'd oblige him. The problem was, she didn't actually know what to say to the Emperor of Orlais; "...nice weather for an invasion?"

He didn't immediately respond, which she supposed was a sign of at least slight surprise. Instead he watched her, his expression unreadable even bared to the world and bereft of a mask. Then again, from what she remembered he'd always loathed the Game. It was one of the reasons she'd always liked him.

"I see your injuries have done little to dampen your... _mood_?" he actually seemed uncomfortable, which she took as a small personal victory in having unsettled him. Of course, being the goddamn Emperor of Orlais probably spared him this degree of casual banter, much to his detriment now.

"I've honestly been hurt worse in spars." She could say it honestly too, keeping unsaid the part where said spars had been in her youth, and consisted of wrestling actual dragons to the ground. It was long ago, of course, back when her body could still handle the pressure of fully shapeshifting; "So...I take it there's a reason you didn't just chop my head off and decorate a spike with it?"

"...personal curiosity, mostly." He admitted, or pretended to. She couldn't quite tell; "At first I was certain you were Orlesian, but I have found I cannot place your accent. Then I realized, one of my spymasters spent quite the time in Ferelden, and came across a young woman from across the seas. An Imperial, yet her accent so alike Orlesians that at first she thought her one."

Ah. Apparently she was getting back at breaking necks, if said spymaster was whom she suspected. Alma withheld the curse she actually really wanted to utter, mostly because she _was_ in the presence of an Emperor, and could at least retain _that_ much decorum. The alternative to personal incompetence was far more worrying still, and remained an option she really didn't like. At all.

Lyrium was messed up enough as it was already.

"Does it really make a difference where I was born?" she mused, reclining and used the bars of the cell as support. It caused the pain in her ass to flare up again, and she idly fretted at the prospect of passing out from pain whenever she'd have to visit nature; "I'm Fereldan in all but blood."

"But were you born in Orlais, or across the sea?"

"You know, the world is round so technical Orlais' across the sea if you head east from here." She grinned a little at his briefly perplexed expression; "Sorry about throwing around your men, by the way. I suppose I might have gone a little overboard."

"...I suppose it should have an obvious answer, but you are not a mere knight, no, Ser Alma of the Dane?" he watched her with a frown, which she had to admit went well with his beard. Odd, she remembered him as cleanly shaven; "Given your age and... _proficiency_ with your weapon, I would argue it a fair guess to say you gained your title during the rebellion?"

"This one, yeah." She nodded, leaning back. Oh, that wound was gonna be a pain in the ass, literally. She'd probably have been crippled and screwed if she'd not been a mage; "...I don't exactly have a liege, so it's not a title I throw around a lot. And no, you can't buy me or threaten me to join your side in this, Gaspard. My loyalties lie with Ferelden."

"You don't seem to care that such declarations these days would see you branded a heretic." It wasn't even a question, she had to give him that. Had she ever actually been Andrastian - and there had been a short period where she'd contemplated its merits - the statement might have made her recoil, just a little. As it was, a convenient yawn as good as voiced her thoughts on _that_. "Indeed, you even command that I turn around my army, and leave Ferelden. Would you have the Chantry launch an Exalted March instead, and visit upon its people a fate far worse than simple annexation?"

"I still command you turn your men around, by the way." She noted, sitting up a little straighter; "For your sakes, actually. You're no match for the Legion, Gaspard. You don't even understand how outclassed your men are when compared to them, unless you're hoping to win this by sheer numbers alone, in which case it'd kinda contradict your wish to save lives...unless of course you only care about Fereldan lives, and not those of your own men."

Technically, she wasn't lying. The Legion, to a man, was by far the superior force when faced with the regulars of Gaspard's forces. A professional soldier in Orlais constituted a man taken in for a few years of service, and then called upon when a campaign arose. They still had to buy their own supplies and weapons, only the brigandines they wore and the helmets and shields were supplied by their local lords. The Legionaries, on the other hand, served nearly two thirds of their lives, and had the skills and experience to show for it. That each Triarii was equipped to the point that they made Chevaliers seem lightly armored was a side-note, really.

The best hope was in Gaspard not actually knowing the numbers the Legion had to throw around.

"I am afraid your words remain as effective as they were when you stood before me by the bridge." Gaspard hummed; "I will not be stopped when the alternative..."

He paused when a scuffle broke out just beyond the tent's entrance. It was short, and evident that the guards had simply stopped someone from rushing straight through. Alma kept her tongue, inwardly annoyed at the interruption. A man entered the tent, looking and walking like he'd just leapt from the saddle of a horse.

"Excellency." He fell on his knee, breathing hard; "Urgent news from Jader."

Gaspard seemed, for a moment, torn between the two people in the tent. Probably he was considering whether he could afford _her_ hearing anything important. Then again, she _was_ locked up tightly, and as far as he knew posed no further threat.

"Speak."

"Divine Beatrix has called an Exalted March. She'd already gathered a fleet of the faithful, and of sellswords just east of Val Royeaux when they sent me out from Jader." Alma noticed how Gaspard grew utterly still, his hands slack and arms limp at the news. So, he hadn't had a finger in it? In hindsight it'd have been a greater surprise if he'd had, but it was still confirmation to allay suspicions; "More have joined them from the coasts of the Marches."

"...how many?"

"We don't know yet, Excellency." The man gasped, dripping sweat onto the grassy floor; "Forty ships set out from Val Royeaux, but there's no telling how many joined them from the northern coasts."

"Damn that woman..." the Emperor swore under his breath, walking about as he paced before the messenger; "She'll likely sail straight for Denerim, or Amaranthine, and let the zealots rampage and raid every harbor and port betwixt... _damn her_ , she's forcing my hand in this now..."

"...my Emperor?" the man seemed confused, and probably rightly so. His liege was cursing out the head of their faith, something Alma couldn't quite help but find amusing, the situation aside. All the same, this presented a problem that she hadn't quite foreseen. Or rather, she'd expected it, but not this soon. An Exalted March would have made sense _after_ Ferelden and the Legion managed to beat Gaspard's forces, not as an independently moving army; "...What is your command?"

"My command?" Gaspard turned to look at the kneeling messenger, in Alma's estimation probably a mere peasant unlucky enough to have been picked to ride from Jader to the army. The Emperor barked a short laugh, one bereft of humor; "My command seems somewhat compromised now, if the Divine so moves without regards for my campaign, and with probable intentions less so merciful than mine...Find my officers and relay the news, they'll be in the biggest tent in camp. Now, off with you."

The messenger nodded, uttering his gratefulness - though for what Alma couldn't quite discern - and hastily made his exit from the tent, leaving her relatively alone with a quietly fuming Gaspard. It was actually almost funny, how he seemed ready to tear down the tent itself if it would let him vent a rage he could not release with shouts.

"Funny how things don't turn out how we'd like, isn't it?" she mused, reclining back against the bars of her cage, for she could still not with a straight face refer to it as a cell. The Emperor turned to her, a look in his eyes that threatened actual torture. Not that she could blame him, the comment was in poor taste. Not that she'd stop; "One moment you're rolling into Ferelden on your little mission of mercy, and then out of nowhere, an Exalted March that _everyone_ knew was coming."

"I find your apparent amusement at the situation disturbing." There was little praise or amusement in his voice, and yeah it probably did come across as disturbing. The problem was, she didn't really know how to start a conversation that ended with her snapping apart the shackles like they were wet parchment, and breaking apart the cage like it was straw. Stalling and making poor jests were the best she could do, which in itself was a pretty fucking sad realization. _Gods, I'm a mess...Gaspard's right, I do say some disturbing shit._

"Yeah well, my country's apparently getting shanked from two sides at once, so I'll cope however I wish, thank you very much." She frowned at him; "It's your own fault for being the only person here for me to vent at."

"Any other day, I would have taken your quips with amusement, Ser Alma." Gaspard sighed, something like regret in his voice; "Sadly, it seems Beatrix forces me to make a move on Denerim, faster than I'd have liked, and I cannot bring along prisoners, especially not a woman in your age."

"Ah, you'll have me executed, I take it?" she would be lying if she said the notion didn't sadden her. she genuinely liked Gaspard, and while it wasn't the first time he'd try and kill her, it still hurt when appreciation wasn't mutual; "Luckily for you, I'll spare you the dilemma and remove myself entirely."

"...what do you mean?" she merely smiled at Gaspard when he asked. It was the kind of smile a grandmother would show her grandchild when he'd asked a silly or endearing question, before patting him on the head and answering in a way that wasn't utterly patronizing.

Rather than pat the Emperor's head, however, she gently prided her shackled hands apart, splitting the iron like it'd been soft clay. Gaspard stared, mouth open yet devoid of words as she put the shackles down, then repeated with the iron around her feet. Both sets were put into a neat pile, mostly for the sake of her own amusement.

She then pried apart the wrist-thick bars, frowning at the noise made from bending and twisting solid metal. Gaspard, at the same time, remained motionless and quiet, probably just struck with too much disbelief to actually conjure up a response to what he was seeing. Alma stepped out gingerly, wincing at the pain it brought forth when she moved her legs, and strained the wound. It'd have been a great deal worse if the spear had hit a mere few inches closer to center mass, but it was a pain all the same.

"My dear Gaspard..." she stood and put a hand on his shoulders, Gaspard seeming less regal and far more like a mere man shocked out of his wits. The smile she gave him was to be reassuring, but didn't seem to have such effect; "If I wanted to harm you, I'd have torn you from your horse at the bridge. There is a long and glorious destiny laid out for you, but to conquer Ferelden does not lie within it."

"...who _are_ you?" he finally uttered, voice low and almost a whisper. There was something like fear in his eyes, though far heavier than mere dread. Awe? She wasn't sure, he'd always been hard to read; " _What_ are you, even human?"

She kept back the amused chuckle at his questions, aware that he no longer thought her a mere knight;

"Human?" she smiled, pondering if she should mention the definitions of Bretons compared to humans. It'd have been useless though, not to mention a waste of time she did not have. Even had he asked if she were Breton, the answer would have been the same; "My humanity was left behind long ago. I am the Spirit of the River Dane, Gaspard... I am also a simple woman, and yet I am the closest you shall ever come to witness divinity. I am a hypocritical woman, for I am an observer with no right to meddle, yet sentimentality commands that I do, no matter how many times we reach this point..."

He remained silent, probably torn between thoughts even she could not begin to guess.

"Things have been set in motion now that cannot be stopped."

"The Exalted March." He sighed; "I did not know Beatrix would move so soon."

"I know." Alma nodded; "The moment the Empire came ashore, an Exalted March was inevitable. Your intentions were rare in their nobility, Gaspard. But Ferelden will not come under Orlesian domain once again, no matter the forces you throw at her. The men upon whom you rely for support will only soak the earth further with the blood of your countrymen."

"...all the same, I rely on their support, or Orlais faces chaos once more." his face hardened, and she knew his decision had been made, for him as much as by him; "You will have your things returned, and allowed leave. I could not keep you without losing men anyways, it would seem...but you cannot stop both my forces and those of the Chantry, and you know as well as I that mine are far more merciful than those sailing up the coast."

"You'll regret releasing me, you know." She dared a smirk; "I'll be a terror to your men, and just because I'd rather not _kill_ you, doesn't mean I'm not going to break every bone in your body, should we meet again."

"In that case...I will pray that we do not meet again, Ser Alma of the Dane."

* * *

"They're not attacking." Cauthrien noted, putting down the spyglass she'd held to her eye. The sun had been at its peak when first the Orlesians had tried, and failed, to cross the ditch in full. Now it was approaching evening, though thanks to the late Spring the sun remained up, and she could follow the ongoings of the Orlesian camp, just beyond the effective range of even the battlemages; "Why aren't they attacking?"

"We've bloodied their noses." Khaok remarked; "They know they can't just roll over us like stampeding cattle. Same time, it'll prompt them to be cautious. They'll send scouts, launch raids and sorties, try and find weak spots in our defenses, or ways to flank us..."

"I don't like it." She muttered. The mountains to their south were neigh impassable for soldiers, but nothing was ever truly impassable to those with the determination to cross it. And Gaspard had determination enough for several men. The area to their north was likewise unwelcoming to armies, and even more so to cavalry. Steep hills, cliffs and rocky outcrops and marshes, just one of them manmade, meant a hell for anyone trying to march an army across it. The Pass was the only route possible, and it was the one they were staking Ferelden's future on the Orlesians taking. If Gaspard found another way - or even marched through the Deep Roads, mad as he would have to be to take such risks - he could flank and hit them, hard enough that she doubted even the stout men of the Legion could bear such brunt and force; "Can't we hit them somehow? Poke their men and rile them into stupid actions?"

"I could send out a sortie, a few men to try and set a few fires..." the Legate sounded hesitant of his own idea; "But if they've set up just halfway decent sentries, they'll get caught and probably executed in full view of our own forces."

"So it'd be a coin-toss between demoralizing their men, or ours..." Cauthrien growled. Damn whatever deities were actually paying attention, she hated their situation. They could no more move than a tortoise forced within its shell by a pack of wolves, or lions, in this case. Hopefully, they were not about to be flipped on their backs; "...you know your men best, Legate. What'd you suggest?"

"Patience." He breathed, a strange notion from a man as brutish in appearance as him; "We're sitting on the only viable path into Ferelden. We're stocked and armed to hold them back, as long as nothing makes the northern crossing."

"The Ash Warriors haven't lit their beacon, so..." Cauthrien muttered, yet still doubt gnawed. It seemed too easy, by far. There was no way _this_ was all Gaspard could muster, and the more she pondered it, the more she fretted at the unknowns in the equation. She looked to the Orc; "Do you have a fast rider?"

* * *

Eleanor had grown up under Orlesian occupation, and fought in the Rebellion to free her homeland from aforementioned.

The Chantry had, back then, turned a deaf ear to the plights of the Fereldan people, far too comfortable with its Divine remaining a passive observer in all but name, and for Orlais to continue spoiling the Chantry with lands and treasures. The Revered Mothers in Ferelden had sought audiences and written letters, all to little enough avail as those of the Chantry in Orlais wielded the heavier and bigger stick.

And now, it seemed the Chantry in Orlais, and indeed its Divine, had decided to throw pretenses to the wind. At least a hundred sails dotted the horizon to the west, leaving behind them a trail of smoking towns and ruined homes. She could see them on the coast as well, at the very edge of her vision. Stormbay was the last true coastal town before reaching Highever, and she could see the pillars of smoke from where she stood atop the eastern tower of the castle, and smell the smoke on the very winds that bore the fleet closer and closer. Her hands clenched, the skin tight and pale with anger and frustration.

"They will be here by nightfall."

Legate Sedona Constanta crossed her arms, looking ahead at her side. The officer had arrived with near two thousand men, offering her aid. The men were Fereldans to a man, but trained and armored as the Legion had demanded, in mail and brigandines, and with shields of uniform shapes and sizes. She'd never thought to see her own countrymen organized and equipped with such regularity, but whatever pride it would have brought her was squashed by the notion that soon enough many would be dead, for it was clear where the ships ahead were steered.

Constanta was at best half her own age, and yet seemed possessed of a determination Eleanor would have killed to find in even half their own leaders back in the Rebellion. Only Rowan had seemed of such steely grit. The Legate had already drawn up plans and positioned her men, while the household troops of the Couslands were kept in reserve. When Eleanor had offered to put them on the front lines as well, Constanta had refused her with every scrap of due dereference she could have asked, calling them bodyguards, not soldiers.

It was clear it had not been meant as an offence, and yet it felt like one all the same. And she could not even berate the woman now at her side, for the household troops of her House were those of the knights that had survived to this day, not those they had sent with Fergus to Ostagar for what felt like an eternity ago.

"Unless they mean to break down the walls from the sea, there's only one place they can attack to raid the town proper." Constanta stated, bringing Eleanor to the map she held before them. It detailed Highever, both town and castle, and had been made by the Orlesians back during the occupation; "They'll hit the harbor, probably following a bombardment from those trebuchets onboard. I've men assigned to organizing the townsfolk into firefighting brigades, and allow the soldiers and town watch to focus on the assault itself. I've only four mages on hand, but we'll make best possible use of them, and make it feel like a dozen..."

"Sensible, and optimistic." Eleanor nodded, a frown on her face regardless; "The reports mentioned some kind of new devilry the Chantry's ships have. Like spears, but they scream as they fly and explode when they land."

"Devilry, but I don't think it's magical in nature..." Constanta frowned; "They may well be firebombs on spears, launched by ballistae to make the distance."

"And the howling?" Eleanor raised a brow.

"Holes in the bombs can howl like a banshee when going fast enough against the wind." The Legate explained; "It's a strange concept, but not an inexplicable one. The worst will be to combat the flames they'll spread, and keep the men cohesive when under fire."

"I see...I don't expect we'll be seeing much in the way of reinforcements?"

"The Aviatorii, to my knowledge, are on their way but can only travel so far before their magic runs out." Constanta sighed; "It's standard practice to transport them by airship to save time, but all airships have already been recalled to Soldier's Peak. If the weather keeps, they'll be here no later than five days from now."

"I don't think we have five days." Eleanor muttered, eyes on the approaching ships. The Legate shrugged at her side.

"No, we don't have five days." She sighed; "Go rest, Lady Teyrna. There'll be no sleep tonight."

* * *

 **If I were to offer an idea of Sedona Constanta, the closest one would be a younger, Imperial Legate Rikke.**

 **There's not a lot of memorable, female officers from the Legion throughout Elder Scrolls for me to give a better comparison.**


	25. Come Hell to Highever

**"I would rather face an army of lions, led by a sheep, than an army of sheep, led by a lion."**

* * *

 **Come Hell to Highever**

* * *

Darkness had fallen, and rainclouds loomed overhead, yet there was little doubt as to where the enemy was.

Eleanor could see their ships clearly from her tower, each one clearly outlined and marked with torches and lanterns. It was to help them not collide, she knew, but also it served to worsen the nerves that had denied her sleep. When daylight had reigned, she'd been able to tell the ships apart, but now in the darkness, the countless lamps made them seem equally without number.

It all seemed far too familiar, to once again have an enemy at the door that had once claimed friendship. Never had she thought it'd be the Chantry threatening fire and death, and she was in a way happy Mother Mallol could not see such atrocities carried out by the Chantry she'd died serving.

The first rain drops started falling, even before the first projectile was launched, and Eleanor found herself quietly thanking the Maker for the blessing, small though it be. Rain would help them keep the flames under control. The splash of water on her shoulder was near unnoticeable, and she heard it more than felt the impact.

It seemed to signal the start, all the same.

Down below, Legate Constanta had taken personal charge of the men. Streets had been barricaded or staked, the latter mostly for the sake of slowing their enemies down, rather than hoping to spit them like pigs. The men under her command were green as could be, recruits barely qualifying for the name of Hastatis, let alone proper, solid Principes. All the same, she would use them to the best of her - and their - abilities.

This would be their trial by fire, a trial she knew many would fail to pass.

Highever's docks and harbor were better defended than Denerim's, at least. Where Denerim's docks stretched along the coast for the entirety of the city, Highever's were far more compact and restricted, which would make them all the easier to defend against overwhelming numbers, and she knew they would be. This many ships did not carry only a few thousand men.

The docks were accessible by three main streets, and however many smaller alleyways one could imagine. Due to its positioning in a natural harbor, the walls stretched beyond where the docks ended, hugging the entrance for ships that left only a narrow passage open. Archers manned these walls, and could shoot at boats and whatever else might sail in, both without and within.

Of the three main streets, they'd managed to barricade two of them to such a degree that she felt they could be held, at least to a point. The mages at her disposal were not Constructii, but instead the volunteers from Ferelden's Circle. Still, even a common mage could lift a block of stone, of force a furrow into the ground. They'd raised the barricades from stone and timber and iron, reinforcing them as best they could. They were stockades, really, and could be manned as such.

The only street left open was that of the market, far too wide to effectively block off. It'd been built when Highever was Orlesian property, apparently, and meant to display the wealth of the Teyrnir for anyone stepping off the boat from Val Royeaux, or the Free Marches. The plaza was wide enough that she could have put a Cohort in it and still had room for maneuvers, not that the men she now commanded were capable of many. She'd done what she could to compensate by pre-sighting the plaza for indirect fire from the catapults Oswind Bannorn had put at her disposal. If they could bog down the enemy here, the catapults could drop the skies on them, hopefully. They were crude machines, and she'd have had any Imperial engineer flogged for daring to claim them worthy of name.

But they were what she had, and she'd make due with them.

If there was a bit of comfort to be had, it'd be that these men were not simply fighting because they were ordered to. Ferelden, and for many, Highever, was their home. And they were raised from childhood to wield the bow, which was more than one could say about the Legion's archers.

She walked behind them, helmet under her arm.

"Soldiers! Fereldans! Listen to me, and listen well, for I know the despair within your hearts!" She did not, truly, but she understood it well enough. They were soon to fight the religious zealots of an Exalted March. They would fight the forces of the Chantry, the very arbiters of their faith. For them, it was likely akin to her having to command forces against the Emperor himself; "Out there, the forces of the Chantry are drawing near. They come here to sack and pillage and murder, and they think it justified for they see you as nothing but heretics!"

She paused her stride, now having reached the docks themselves. She knew her voice wouldn't reach everyone but for the amplifying spells the mages had placed upon her. It even reached beyond the rain itself. The docks were solidly built, with piers of stone and masonry where ships could be taken out of the water, and long wooden piers and boardwalks as well.

"But ask yourselves, which is the greater evil; To accept a hand outstretched, or to burn alive the innocents!" She'd heard enough descriptions of what had occurred in Portsmouth, the first town to be struck and to be struck entirely unprepared; "Soon, you will have to fight. You will have to _kill_ other human beings, your fellow Andrastians! When that moment comes, when you must kill or be killed, remember my words! You are fighting not only to defend your country, but also to defend your families and traditions! You are defending your wives and children." She swept her hand across the assembled men, unable to see their faces in the darkness and downpour; "Your sisters! Your brothers! Your mothers and fathers! Because, if Highever falls, Amaranthine will burn! And if Amaranthine burns, Denerim and everyone within her will burn!"

Speeches, was something she'd always excelled at. She raised a fist, clenching it against the sea as if she could squash the darkness in her grasp, like a bug.

"Defend your faith, against those who claim you heretics!" she shouted again; "So that your children may be free to live their lives without fear! Free to worship and to love! Free, because you have fought on this day!"

There was no resounding cheer, of course. Had these men been Legionaries in earnest, they would have cheered as was tradition. These men, however, were Fereldans, and no matter the rousing speech she gave, they still knew in their hearts that the faith around which they'd built not just their lives, but their entire culture and civilization, was led by people who now wanted them burned at the stakes, or simply butchered in the streets.

Portsmouth had left little doubt as to the mercy of the Exalted March.

It was to be another half hour, by her estimations, before the first bright orb could be seen out on the water, separating itself clearly from the lamps and torches when it made its rapid ascent into the skies, followed soon after by myriads of similar, fast moving balls of fiery light and death.

"TAKE COVER!"

The first fireball sailed far overhead from where she stood, crashing down beyond her line of sight within the town itself. The brass bells of the Chantry, each taller than a man, resounded with alarm as the firefighting squads were called into action, the first to fight tonight.

The next fireballs struck down, their indiscriminatory fire absolute. The brass bells echoed for what felt like hours and fires started beyond counting, and soon enough the pith-soaked rags wrapped around boulders were not alone in their illumination of the skies. Through the rain, Constanta heard the high-pitched screams from above the waves, long before she saw it. It looked like a flaming arrow, only the fiery tail it dragged visible against the night, and the screaming from it was soon enough joined by hundreds more, spearing towards the port like a flock of angry, ceaselessly screaming gulls.

One struck near enough to her that she could make out its parts, a spear indeed but also what almost looked like a quiver of metal, spewing fire everywhere before the shell shattered, and engulfed only brick and grass in flames. The explosion was still enough to rattle her, and pieces _pinged_ against the metal of her armor with such force that one going into a gap between the plates, pierced the mail and lodged itself in the flesh of her arm.

Where docks ended and the streets began, soldiers hid behind their shields, a paltry attempt at a testudo if ever she'd seen one. She marched over, tearing the piece of shrapnel from her body and healed the wound herself. She pulled the first the best she could get her hands on, back to his feet. It was irrelevant that they were already in cover, for the soldier didn't seem to realize it himself, nor did those around him.

"ON YOUR FEET YOU MEN! IF YOU'RE HIT IT WON'T MATTER IF YOU STAND OR KNEEL, SO FUCKING STAND!" Her shouts needed no amplification by the mages, and received none either, as they were themselves busy redirecting incoming projectiles from the main groupings of soldiers, steering them instead into empty streets or isolated buildings or patches of grass and dirt; "You're dressed like soldiers, so _stand_ like soldiers!"

A fireball sailed overhead, and the brass bells were silenced as the boulder crashed through the belltower, sending the massive brass ornaments to the ground in a twisted echo of their own song, a final impact resounding through the rain before, finally, falling silent.

She left the man there, frustrated that no Centurions were at her disposal. Legionaries would weigh the risk of being killed by the enemy, against the certainty of being beaten black and blue by a Centurion, and take the option that chanced him remaining unscathed, rather than maimed and dishonored.

But there were no Centurions, for there'd been no time to train any. Those assigned by the Legion to train these men had remained in the bannorns, to continue their work on new recruits, and so it was up to her to maintain their discipline, even as fireballs and screaming spears of fire rained down around her.

A glance over the water betrayed no signs of assault boats, meaning there probably more yet to come before they would have a chance of fighting back themselves. Constanta placed herself in relative cover behind a low wall, aware that it would do little to protect her from a direct hit by one of the trebuchets. She could, however, do little else but this and wait. The artillery they had available sorely lacked for range, and she cursed that fact. Around her, the ceaseless rain continued, of water and fire both, though she barely felt the soaked clothes underneath her armor, the fires of Highever already burning with such heat nearby that it fought off the cold.

It seemed, for the time being, the Chantry knew full well of their presence, and was more than content at trying to bombard them into submission. She would have scoffed at such a notion, had her men been proper Legionaries. Soldiers of the Empire could not so easily be cowed, whereas these men were just barely Hastatis.

"Gods damn it..." she muttered, picking scraps of metal from where it had struck her armor. It'd have been a lot worse for anyone without armor, that much was disturbingly evident.

So, the Chantry was as well content with blowing up its faithful? Honestly, she could have laughed at the idea if she hadn't been the one to lead aforementioned victims of a totalitarian Divine. A boulder crashed through the wall half a dozen meters to her left, not even slowed in the slightest by the barrier of masonry. Constanta flinched, mostly from the impact, eyes locked on the boulder when it came to rest in the street.

It was somewhat less funny when you were the one stuck dealing with the mess.

"General!" A soldier came running towards her, skidding and slipping on the rain-wet cobblestones. He managed to halt himself before hitting her, at least.

"Legate." She corrected him, irritated beyond what she knew to be rational. Being bombarded from the sea had a way of getting on her nerves, something she _knew_ wasn't the men's fault; "And what is it?"

"They're coming." the soldier gestured at the sea; "They're approaching in boats under cover of the rain, but we saw them when lightning flashed!" he paused, just to breathe; "Hun- _hundreds_ of boats, we couldn't see the end of them ere darkness came again."

"Spread the word, quickly; Disregard the bombardment and assume positions."

She didn't even wait for the man to be off, and instead followed her own advice. Striding out from cover, she sidestepped the pile of debris where a boulder had smashed open the front of a building, and spread timber and broken bricks out over the street. A screaming spear of fire smashed through the wall behind her, straight through the space she'd just previously occupied. She stared at the projectile, uncertain of whether to glare or not, and then spun on iron soles and continued walking.

She had a battle to win, and a foe to crush.

Even if she had to do so mostly by herself.

When the first boats encroached on the docks and the piers, and made it so close that the archers on the walls could no longer risk shooting at them for fear of hitting their own forces, Constanta was there on the docks, clad in steel with sword and shield and fury on hand. Behind her was the first Century, eighty men drenched in rain and yet heated with the fires of righteous indignation.

She could use that.

She knew they had to cut their enemies apart piecemeal, and refuse them the chance to regroup on solid ground in large enough numbers to break through their barricades and formations. She could barely see the boats, even as they came close enough to hit the outermost piers, so dense and heavy was the rain. She was thankful for the Caligula soles of her armored boots, rendering the slippery surfaces of the cobblestones as solid as had they been dry.

"Kill them, no mercy, no hesitation." She did not shout, for all knew what was at stake here. The men took off, a jog more than truly running, but keeping their formation and pairs as they did so. She was at the lead, of course, and was as such the first to come face to face with the enemy.

She'd imagined half-naked flagellants, or Templars akin to those of the Empire, when the sole description had been 'religious zealot'. Instead it was an utterly ordinary soldier, a mere man-at-arms with a shield strapped to his back, and a sword in his hand. He was the first to have reached the top of the pier, a dozen man behind him in the same boat. She got to him before he could truly react, shoving her blade through his skull with enough force to send the tip out the back of his head, a wet crunch accompanying the kill.

Her men, maybe inspired by the example she'd set for them, set about with a vigor as they brutally cut down those unhappy few to have made it to the top of the piers. She could have smiled at the sight and sounds of blades cutting flesh and bodies hitting the blackish waters, if not for the knowledge that they could only delay the landing.

The harbor was narrow, but was not merely restricted to the docks themselves. There were wide areas along the sides of the natural harbor where ships could be hauled onto land, and these would be the bane of their efforts to stem the tide. She had a cohort assigned to each side, but knew it only a matter of time before the rate of reinforcements would overwhelm them.

She continued cutting through the enemies all the same.

Men-at-arms and serjeants and sellswords, it was pitiful to think they hoped to best an Imperial Legate in a melee. She'd been a soldier for longer than many of them had been capable of walking, and every step she took, every lunge, jab and bash of her shield had seen thousands of hours of training, ceaseless drilling leaving every attack simple muscle memory.

She was leaving behind a trail of corpses, even as more and more zealots started crowding the harbor, unloading from their boats faster than she and her men could cut them down and throw them back into the sea.

A man came at her from the front, and more from the sides as she'd made too great a headway into their growing numbers. He swung a polearm at her, a long shaft with a straightened scythe at the end. She raised her shield against it, only to have the blade burrow itself halfway through the reinforced frame, stuck there. There was no time to yank the weapon from her shield, so tore the polearm from his hands and stomped on the shaft, snapping it in two.

Blade still stuck in her shield, mere inches above where her fist clenched around the handle, she turned on the approaching contenders, jabbing the tip of her sword into his ribs with enough force to shatter bones. The man previously on her left, now behind her, slashed against her back with a greatsword that could have shredded mail. Plate, on the other hand, was less so fragile, and though the blow sent her staggering, she turned with the momentum and returned the favor, cutting the man's face from ear to chin.

She panted, caught in a moment of peace as no one around her seemed eager for a melee on their own. A glance at her shield betrayed the wood to be cracking, held together only by the grace of the metal frame. Around her, the defenders of Highever were being matched in numbers.

She hesitated, knowing she could call for the Teyrna's few remaining knights to bolster her forces, or call on more of her own men. Neither would secure them the harbor, not now when the enemy numbers on land were fast outnumbering her own. She had but two thousand men to dispatch, and the enemy a great deal more. Sacrificing them on the blood-stained stone of the docks would buy them little but time.

"We can't hold them, Legate!" One of the men from the western side of the harbor stopped before her, panting and bleeding from the face; "They're landin' faster than we can cut 'em down!"

Damn it. She knew this was going to happen, but to give ground infuriated her nonetheless. The blood of the Nords ran in her veins, refusing the mere notion of a retreat, no matter the odds.

"Find the trumpeters, give the signal to fall back to the streets!" she pushed the man off in the right direction, turning barely in time to block a sword from cutting her throat to the bone. The hand had held her broken shield formed a fist, and she drove it into his jugular, using the steel-edge of her wrist guards to slice it open and break his windpipe; "Fall back! FALL BACK TO THE STREETS!"

Around her, those who had heard started to run. There was no order to the retreat, only the animal desire in all men to seek safety behind the shields and spears of others. She stood as a rock in the stream of retreating men, ensuring they made it back. Strategies that would have worked well for an actual Legion, with actual Legionaries, were rendered null by the simple fact that these man wielded no magic what so ever, and could not heal themselves. There would be no returning to the fight for those unable to continue as they were now.

A retreat did not mean the enemy left them alone.

Constanta was caught by surprise when the tip of a sword was plunged into the gap where the back of her chest-plate met the lower segments. It was stopped by the combination of mail and gambeson, but she could still feel the cold steel meeting flesh. She fell forward, more out of recoil than instincts, and turned on one foot even as the blade was yanked from her.

The attacker was _not_ just another zealot, she could see that much immediately. Armor that was nearly pitch black, but for a single, stylistic impression of a massive, white eye with lashes that seemed more like the rays of the sun. It was, she realized, an eye within the Chantry's Sunburst banner, but the armor spoke of something far less so a zealot of penitent knight. She gasped and stepped backwards, pressing a hand to the wound as she poured healing energies into the maimed tissue.

When she suddenly could stand straight again, it seemed to surprise her attacker. It was no soldier, though the way he moved spoke of something beyond mere knighthood. A Chantry Evocatii, maybe? She breathed, squaring her feet against him, knowing if she tried to turn and run the next strike would not be as lenient. The longsword in his hands hovered just above his left shoulder, ready to strike downwards or angled to a slash.

Sedona had a short sword, and the knowledge that she needed to get inside his guard. Trying to parry a strike with her weapon was a futile notion, and not even worthy of consideration. She had to find a way within his guard, preferably before-

She sidestepped, but her shoulder was still clipped when the man seemed to lose his patience, and struck first. The steel spat sparks as sword met pauldron, caught by just the tip of her swordbreakers. It'd been meant to decapitate her in one swoop, she supposed, oddly calm despite the closure to death. There was no chance to get within his guard yet, the long blade withdrawn as quickly as it had struck. She was, she understood now, dealing with a _viper_ disguised as a swordsman.

He moved as if his blade weighed nothing to uphold, and the steel he wore made so little sound she could have lost him in the darkness. Was he a mage, perhaps? The Fereldans spoke of Knight-Enchanters, mages who fought on the front lines with armor and swords of arcane energies, but the man before her seemed content enough with proper steel.

She waited for him to strike again, biting down as she allowed him a hit on her leg, the steel dragging across mail that shattered and tore with the impact. He'd nearly hamstrung her, and even the miss was enough that her leg buckled underneath her, even as she plunged into _his_ guard, forcing the sword out of her way with her own blade sliding under his. Sparks flew in her face, even as the pouring rain cooled the steel, and she found herself close enough to him, both their faces hidden behind steel. Nonetheless, she reared back and swung forward, cracking her helmet into his. Here, at least, he seemed at a sudden disadvantage, the steel of his helmet meant to deflect blows rather than take them. The thicker steel of _her_ helmet crumbled the front of his, the horizontal slit he'd used to see now bent beyond visibility.

Around them, a circle of zealots had formed. Sedona took them in, aware that she was now surrounded, and cursed under her breath. It was the price to pay for thinking she could order a retreat of unproven men, and expect them to do so with discipline. And it was the price to pay for the stubbornness of her race, to refuse retreat when Sovngarde lay ahead. It was an old habit, and refused as well to die, no matter how hard she tried to make it so.

The knight before her - or whatever he was - removed his helmet, shaking long, golden hair in the pouring rain. She scoffed, moving before he had a chance to speak. She knew he'd try to speak, offering up platitudes or introductions to opponents he believed worthy of such. It was a fault all knights seemed to share, no matter their allegiances or race. Chivalry was a code they seemed to adore, and one she felt perfectly justified in exploiting to the full.

His helmet hit the ground mere seconds before he himself did, a raging storm of the north bearing down upon the Chantrist like a bear enraged. She straddled him like one would a lover, though rather than pressing her lips to his, she was pressing the point of her sword against his throat, held back only by him being the stronger. The men around them seemed otherwise occupied now, shouts and orders being yelled with words she could not hear through the rain. They were moving, but not towards her, at least.

The man below her regained some lost confidence, slowly but surely overpowering her. She glanced about without moving her focus from him, and without removing an ounce of weight from her blade. Just shy of a meter away, a cobblestone had been knocked loose from the street by one of the boulders, offering itself up if only just beyond her reach.

Her lapse in focus now cost her, however, and the sword from torn from her hands as a grip of iron clasped around her wrists. She repaid the gesture by cracking her helmet against his forehead again, now unprotected by the helmet she'd twisted. His hands slacked on her wrists only after the third impact, his face a bloodied mess of a broken nose and gashed skin.

She rolled off of him, grabbing for the rain-slick rock. The leather of her gauntlets were long-soaked with both blood and water, and the stone was cold to the touch even as she grabbed it. Already again, her downed foe had gathered himself again, punching at her gut and face from where he lay. There was still not a shred of desperation to his actions, even as she grabbed and broke his arm with her foot. There was no scream, though his eyes were steel on hers and his expression simple, cold fury. Around them, the flow of the forces was now moving the other way, she could hear Fereldan accents above the chaos and noise.

He still punched her face when she brought the stone down the first time, as well as the second.

His fist was weaker when she brought down the stone the third time, most of his face now a cracked, bloody mess. She wondered, idly, if he could still see her, let alone speak with his teeth scattered and smashed, then brought the stone down a fourth time, finally cracking open his skull, and spilling blood and fluids over his pristine, golden hair. She watched the broken mess that was left, allowing herself a sigh and a smile to one less enemy of the Empire.

"The Emperor sends his regards, Chantrist."

Soon enough, he would send it to more, and she'd be among those to deliver it.

"Legate Constanta?" she did not flinch when a hand was on her shoulder, rather she nearly threw the blood-stained rock at its owner. It was well she hadn't, considering the Cousland sigil on the man's shield. Eleanor had sent the knights in, she realized, and briefly looked around to realize that rather than trying to retake ground, they'd formed a ring around her; "Can you walk? We need to get back behind our own lines."

"...yes." she gave the man a nod, though paused to bend down and take the fallen knight's longsword. Her own shield smashed as it was, this would serve her better in its stead; "Pull the knights back, we're giving up the harbor."

* * *

 **I will admit, I did not plan for this battle to fill out the entire chapter. But then I sat down and realized that my original plan would involve a ton of time-skipping, and figured this was better instead.**

 **Ah, and so we have Sedona Constanta, the Nord whose loalty to the Emperor approaches fanaticism.**

 **I like her :)**


	26. Stormcaller

**Ahh, back again after real life came calling for a bit, and I had to go most of august without so much as typing a single word on my story.**

* * *

 **Stormcaller**

* * *

"Report, General, from Legate Khaok."

Belisarius glanced up from the map, to find Pullo in his wont spot in the doorway, hand outstretched with a scroll clenched therein. A nod brought the man forward, offering the scroll up for the General to read. This one lacked a seal, he noticed, and the expression on Pullo's face betrayed that he was familiar with its contents.

The General ran his one eye through the message, the frown on his forehead only deepening as he read its contents. Legate Khaok was reporting a strange visitor at the Pass, an old woman who claimed to have worked with Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, and been gifted armor for it by Cauthrien herself, then set off north. The Legate had then also sent a man the same way, to ensure the camp at the marsh was still manned, and was awaiting the scout's return. When he finished, a glance at the Centurion was enough to prompt him to speech.

"It's a strange coincidence." The bald-shaven man offered; "An old Orlesian woman mentors Aulus in...something, out in the woods of Oxford, then disappears in time for another old, _Bretoni_ woman to appear at the Pass, only a few days later."

"...could it be the same person?" Belisarius muttered, frowning at the thought. Oxford was almost as far from Gherlen's Pass as you could get in Ferelden, without being in Denerim or Gwaren, and even on horseback the trip would take a week, at least.

"Unlikely as it sounds, we can't rule it out..." Pullo hummed; "It begs the question, what was a Breton doing in Ferelden, in _Thedas_ at all, long enough ago to have worked with the late Teyrn during their rebellion?"

"I don't suppose we've had anything from General Cauthrien, offering an explanation?" the Centurion merely shook his head; "...Khaok said she calls herself Alma."

"I've already sent a request to the libraries for records of the Rebellion." Pullo offered; "Hopefully there'll be something of use there. According to the Legate, Cauthrien believed Alma to be a powerful mage from Orlais at first, though she seems to have realized her true origins now."

"...there's an addendum here." Belisarius noted, having accidentally held his hand over the bottom where a quick note seemed to have been scribbled, an afterthought more than anything; "Cauthrien mused that there seemed to be some similarities between this Alma and the young Aulus girl."

"Can't be." Pullo shook his head; "I spent two years in Evermore as Immunes. King Omluard has no siblings, nor did his father, and all three scions are accounted for."

"...All the same, we seem to be dealing with an unknown here." The General crumbled the paper up and lit it aflame; "I want to know what connection, if any, there is between Alma and the old woman in Oxford, and I want to know what the _hell_ she's planning with the Aulus girl."

There was something going on here, something he couldn't see.

* * *

The rain had stopped, at some point.

Constanta only noticed when she glanced at the skies, and drops no longer fell into the gap in her helmet. She was hot, sweating and panting with exhaustion, and the raging fires around her did little to help. Highever was burning, and the bucket patrols and mages were incapable of keeping up with the rate with which the Chantry's warships flung projectiles at them.

She'd lost track of how long the fighting had been going on, only barely aware of the passing of time at all. The sun was long since down, the battle dragging them deep into the night, but the clouds remained on the skies, blotting out any chances at seeing the moons or the stars.

The barricades were holding, at least. Those who manned them delivered volleys of bolts and arrows and spears to anyone suicidal enough to approach, forcing their unbidden guests into the only real entrance to Highever proper. The market square, which was why she was right here, two-hander resting on her shoulder as she surveyed the men before her, and the battle mere meters away.

Her men stood their ground, at least, she could give them that much. It was clear they were uneasy with this kind of fighting, but at the same time at least the shield wall was not foreign to them. She could appreciate that, even as the break in her having to personally fight meant she now had a moment to stop, and breathe, and think.

The Chantry had simply razed the other settlements from the sea, unwilling to risk sending men ashore where soldiers might yet wait in the smoking, smoldering ruins. Yet, here they seemed just as unwilling to give in, sending boats upon boats of sellswords, zealots and common soldiers in, as well as those black-clad, eye-bearing warriors. She was unfamiliar with their heraldry, though it was alike enough to that of the Chantry that she could guess at a connection. The sword she'd taken from her foe's body certainly was of high quality, and bore faintly shimmering runes of a kind she could not read, nor guess at their purpose.

"KEEP THOSE LINES TIGHT!"

Was Highever of some value to them, or deemed important enough to take, rather than merely raze? There was nothing of particular strategic value to the town, large though it was, easily as large as Skingrad. Was there something more going on here, or was she overthinking the reasoning of sycophants and butcherers?

"HOLD YOUR GROUND!"

She made her way across the square, the backs of her men to her left. They stood four rows thick here, blocking the path through. She gave them the occasional prod to keep them in line where they faltered, but her eyes remained always ahead, onto the next ones. Behind them, to her right, the onagers snapped against their frames, hurling boulders and loose cobblestones into the fray ahead. Bodies broke and shattered, skulls were crushed and shields and armor caved in and bent, when the skies unleashed rocks onto the unwary.

The siege engines of Ferelden might be smaller than what she'd have liked, and worse for wear when it came to proper range, but at least they could give good account of themselves when offered the chance. Even so, there was little hope of holding the plaza indefinitely. The men under her command were not trained for this kind of fighting, and they were hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed. Again, it was a wonder the Chantry even bothered sending men ashore, knowing no doubt they could have simply bombarded Highever from the seas and lose nary a man.

"Legate!" One of the few actual Imperials under her command ran to her, the steel of his armor glistening red in the lights of the raging fires; "They've forced their way into the harbor towers! They're trying to go above the barricades!"

Constanta stilled, if for a moment. The walls of Highever were simple in their design, and did not account for the seizing of a tower by the enemy. There was no locked gate or grates or portcullis on the walls to stop them from seizing it all, and funnel men that way. She spat on the ground, looking up at the towering walls to try and discern how much they still controlled. There were still archers and mages up there, but enough had turned from firing at the incoming boats that it betrayed an enemy presence on the battlements, though she could not tell friend from foe in the darkness above.

"Gather a Century and make for the battlements. We have to hold them, or we'll get swamped." She slapped the man's shoulder and sent him off, knowing she herself could ill afford to leave behind the fight. The men were still fighting, and her place was here with them.

This was already a fighting retreat, she just refused the notion with as much vigor as she could, and refused the men retreat lest they were about to collapse under the weight of the enemy. Proper Legionaries could have healed the wounds these men sustained, but Fereldans could not, and so plans of battle that _would_ have worked with _proper_ Legionaries, did not work here. They were compensating the best they could, at least, filling out the gabs in the lines as fast as they were made, and dragged back those wounded in the fighting, often enough between the legs of those still engaged.

There were no healers, however. Constanta scowled at that, knowing they were still engaged with the dwarven expedition to retake some old city underneath eastern Ferelden. The Legion was lending its life-support to the dwarves, but would the dwarves lift a finger to lend them aid in turn? The General seemed to think so, and she trusted in his judgement. But all the same, fact remained that no dwarven soldier had come to their aid.

"Legate Constanta." A calmer voice than the last, she turned to realize it was the one-eyed knight, Sir Gilmore, who had approached her. Blood-stained but unharmed, he and those of his fellow knights yet remaining in Highever were capable fighters, and men whose worth she had reconsidered; "The lines are buckling under the pressure."

"I'm aware." She nodded, glancing towards the inner Highever; "But we can't call a full retreat to the next lines before the catapults are pulled back, and we can't pull them back because then those fanatics will swamp the men."

"They _are_ already swamping the men, Ser." The knight pressed, earning himself a glare; "They're exhausted, can barely hold up their shields as it is."

"I tell them to retreat now, it'll be a full-on rout within the blink of an eye." She said, keeping her voice and tone level; "The Legion normally covers retreats like these with magic, but we're _shit_ out of luck there because the volunteer mages are running on lyrium fumes as it is."

"I know." He nodded, unfazed; "Allow my men and I to cover their retreat."

Constanta watched him, trying to discern whether the man had gone mad. It was true that their plate was of higher quality than even her own - an impressive feat - but the market plaza was open and wide, and would see them flanked and bogged down and, in the end, tackled to the ground and killed. Could she sacrifice knights for soldiers?

Of course she could.

"Very well." She nodded, turning to the closest soldier she could slap a grasp on; "Relay to the onagers, they're to pull back behind the next set of defensive lines. We're pulling the men back." She turned back to Gilmore; "I expect you to-"

"THEY'RE THROUGH! They're through the barricade on Baker's Street!" a man ran from a side alley, waving his arms around as he screamed. Constanta froze, as did the knight, and snapped around to where the fleeing man had emerged from. It was the western barricade, the one closest to the wall she'd sent men to retake. The man nearly collided with her, though seemed to realize her identity when he did so; "Boulder hit the barricade, smashed it apart!"

New men now emerged from the side street, these bearing flails and scythes and spears, knives and axes of common folk whipped into religious frenzy. Sedona felt her skin crawl with dread, suddenly all too aware that they were being flanked, and that her defenses had not been up to par.

"RETREAT! RETREAT TO THE NEXT LINES!"

Even as she bellowed the order, the fanatics reached them, and she punctuated her command with a vertical slash, cutting the man and his gambeson from shoulder to waist. He fell to the ground, weapon dropped in favor of clutching at the fountain of blood pouring from his body.

All around her, orderly fighting dissolved into a panicked, chaotic melee. She knew the men could not retreat, knew they would panic and forget the training the Centurions had attempted to drill into their bones. The knights, at least, possessed some discipline, and stood their ground as the streams of zealots poured from the streets and alleyways. Not all of them were even dressed in armor, the zealots. They could as well have been plucked from a market or a festival, if not for the crude and various weapons in their grasps.

Constanta reeled when the flat side of a warhammer struck her in the helmet, her world an echo of noise and pain, if for but a moment. For the helmet of an Imperial Legate was well crafted, and meant to take such blows but from creatures such as Orcs. A man who seemed more like he'd been picked up from the fields, could do little but give her a headache, and she responded in kind by crushing his face with a pommel-strike, putting enough force into the blow that he simply slumped to the ground like a sack of rocks, dead or merely unconscious. She cared little, but stepped backwards instead to make her way to the next defensive lines, where the rest of the men had hopefully formed up now.

Of the thousand she'd started out with on the harbor front, she doubted she'd more than five hundred yet left, if even that. Her men were resorting to fighting like warriors now, not as soldier, and could not on their own overcome many times their number in foes. Constanta swung and carved, laying waste to ill-armored men around her as she went. There were in-between them as well men clad in brigandines and mail, likely mercenaries and sellswords from across the sea, that they bore no visible heraldry of Orlais.

Her men were being cut down, even as they themselves cut and stabbed and carved through scores of foes. She could not call it pride, but it was better than she had dared to hope, when she saw how some managed to stick together, and use their equipment as it was intended. Those men survived longer than the rest, fighting as soldiers, rather than warriors.

"There's no bloody end to them..." Gilmore groaned, rolling his shoulder where what seemed like a pickaxe had lodged itself in the plate. She couldn't tell if the blood was his, and pushed it aside for later. For the knight was not wrong, there did indeed seem to be a _lot_ more than they could hold, though she'd expected as much from the beginning.

"Survival is never a given, Ser Knight." She muttered, unsure and uncaring if he even heard her over the chaos of battle. In truth she'd known from the start this was a mission she was unlikely to accomplish. The men under her command were insufficient in both training and numbers, and their advantages of bottlenecking the enemy were lost when the barricades broke; "But we-"

A crossbow bolt hammered against the upper part of her chest plate, spitting sparks in her face when metal met metal. The bolt bounced off, but still managed to shock her, as did the realization of where it had come from.

"They've taken the walls." She said, somewhat dazed from the strike. The shot was too well aimed for such a distance, and had probably just been aimed at the largest clusters of confirmed Fereldans. She was stopped from speech once again as newcomers accosted them. She greeted them as best she could, blood-stained steel singing through the air before it bit flesh. The blade had to be enchanted, the ease with which it cut through hard-boiled leather too much for even quality steel. Was it something else, then?

She lobbed a man's legs out from under him with such ease and cleanness of cut that he fell forward rather than sideways from the strike, unable to at first seemingly understand what had happened. How had she not been butchered when the fighter she'd faced so clearly had known what he was doing? Another strike, another turn and twist, and she cut through both wooden shield and arm of another attacker, the blade so light and fast for its size that she nearly followed it to the ground.

It was more akin to a dance than a fight, for there seemed to be little actually capable of stopping her blade from making a bloody feast of the Chantrists. Only their numbers proved harder and harder to contend with.

A man came from the shadows and the smoke and tackled her, a dagger flying already before she'd come to fully stop on the wet cobblestones. A hand tore her helmet off and the steel pierced her skin and flesh, ripping through her cheek and carving up teeth before cutting out and open on the other side, opening up the right side of her face like a flayed piece of game. Only her forearm barring him another try stopped him from plunging the dagger back down, this time with better aim. Eyes wide open, a strange, almost inhuman stare that seemed bent on denying her life itself. A Sunburst marking on his forehead, red from either dye or blood.

She screamed, even as the man was torn from her by a blurred Gilmore, the sound choked and gurgling even to her own ears as blood poured in streams from her wounds. The world was a haze of pain and tears, nausea and bile spilling from her throat with little she could do to stop it, had she even been conscious of it. There were loose, hard bits rolling around on her tongue, bits she idly realized were several of her teeth, broken and crushed by the blade that had likely been meant for her throat, not her cheek.

Constanta pressed a hand to the wound, nearly vomiting from the pain of merely touching it as healing energies poured from her gloved hand and into the bleeding gash. She pressed her mouth closed, allowing the cleaved cheek to find itself again, even as doing so meant pressing broken teeth together. _Teeth_ didn't heal, and ceaselessly punished her for trying with mind-wrecking surges of blistering agony.

She was helped to her feet, though the world was yet too dizzy to tell if it was Gilmore or one of the soldiers doing it. All the same, it was appreciated, and allowed her the moment's steadiness to spit out the broken teeth, and reach in to pluck out what remained of them in her gums. The latter was nearly enough to send her back to the ground, and made puke and bile spill from her lips as clumsy fingers gloved in leather rummaged through the ruins of her right lower jaw.

"Legate Constanta, you live?" the voice was Ser Gilmore's, at least. She couldn't quite place him in the swirling vortex that seemed to be the world at present, only that he was close by, somewhere in the fog and haze. There seemed, somehow, to be a lull in the fighting around them, at least for now; "A cruel wound you... _closed_...huh"

"I'm _fbine_... _fine_ , Ser." She frowned as the pain resided, trying to spit out the last globs of vomit. She couldn't yet fully focus on where he was, the world yet too dizzying; "...my helmet, where's my..."

"Here." It wasn't Gilmore this time, but a man in far simpler armor, the brigandine and mail she recognized as belonging to her soldiers; "And, your sword, Legate."

"Thanks..." she muttered, pressing first the familiar, soothing sense of enrounding steel and velvet over her head, a shield from the world that still seemed too alien and hazed. Rationally, she recognized it as the shock of a near-death experience, as well as the pain still lodged in her skull from the strike; "What's...what's the situation, then?"

"They've stopped sending in boats..." the knight said, pointing towards the harbor. She couldn't make anything out in the darkness, but for the lack of shouts as men would depart their boats. Around them, she could tell their own men were getting the upper hand, with fresh troops rushing in from the inner streets; "At least it looks like it. No one's come in for a few minutes."

As the fighting died down, and it became clear who had emerged the winner, no cheers erupted from the throats of the town's defenders. Highever was burning, and its streets ran with blood. There was little reason to cheer. Instead, those now lacking for foes simply stood around, or rummaged through the dead and dying for loot, or to find friends lost in the chaos.

They'd somehow managed to hold the market, a feat she'd not expected. In the darkness and flickering shadows, it was hard enough to tell friend from foe that likely many enemies still around were allowed to flee, and what remained now was but the roar of fires and the groans and cries of the wounded.

"Doesn't..." she started, stopping when a fresh round of nausea struck her; "...doesn't mean they give up. What about the ones on the wall?"

"Dunno yet, but they're not firing at us anymore." Ser Gilmore smacked his lips, a strange sound through the steel of his helm; "...Serah, when you healed yourself, just now..."

"First time seeing that kind of magic?" she didn't bother glancing at him, instead keeping her eyes on the waterfront. She was not enough of an optimist to think they would simply leave Highever be, not after having thrown men at them once already; "How many do you think they just threw at us? I don't think more than a thousand, at most."

"Less, and they nearly broke us anyway..." the knight muttered, shouldering his sword, a claymore large enough to dwarf the blade she'd claimed for spoils; "And no, I actually had the privilege of fighting the Darkspawn alongside Serah Aulus, or Cousland, as it be now."

"Aulus?" Sedona cocked a brow, invisible under her helm; "I was not under the impression you made it to Ostagar, Ser, or the Blight to Highever."

"Neither, thank the Maker..." he seemed to realize the irony of his words when he spoke them, but only chuckled at it; "I fought in the battle of Denerim, and saw her in action, as well a little when Arl Howe's men attacked the castle, months before."

"I see." Well, if the girl had made a lasting impression, and a good one at that with the Fereldans, it was all the better for it. The Empire could use the goodwill; "Those ships...I doubt Highever is the main target."

"Denerim, then?"

"Almost definitely..." She nodded, touching her tongue gingerly to the open, bleeding wounds in her gums. The taste of cobber and iron remained overwhelming, and brought more bile to her throat; "With our forces spread so thin to defend the border and Highever, the city's almost entirely defenseless and...?"

She'd heard them before she saw them, and now turned to face a small group of zealots being marched towards her, hands dangling at their sides as they walked, faces downcast. Blood-spattered and bruised, they looked more like the aftermath of a bandit raid on a farming village than anything even remotely threatening.

Fanatics surrendering? She could have seen the sellswords doing so, but these were clearly not mercenaries, rather more like villagers and farmhands, peasants whipped to war. Constanta frowned, looking upon the miserable forms of the Emperor's foes, those who chose to take arms against him, by extension. A sneer curled her lip, stretching at the newly stitched skin. A long scar had already formed, from lip and halfway to her ear.

"What's this?" she demanded when she identified the man in charge of the strange procession; "I didn't think zealots and fanatics surrendered."

"Only ones who did." The man said, scratching a bloody head; "We're not sure where to put 'em though...or whether to just lob off their 'eads and be done with it."

"Executing prisoners of war?" This was not a problem she'd expected to deal with, bar maybe that she herself could have been taken prisoner; "No. Put them in the castle's stockades until this mess is over and done with."

"I'm surprised you didn't just order them killed." Ser Gilmore offered when they were led off, his face open to the night's air and helmet in the crook of his arm. His face turned to the sea; "...we've still got more of them to deal with, though."

"Imperial law dictates certain rights for prisoners of war." She didn't look at him as she spoke, instead the ships at sea retained her attention. They had yet to move, or make any signs that they were leaving. But she could hear shouts from them, though not a word was telligible; "They're not leaving. It's likely they'll bombard us again, and this time we're not gonna have rain helping us out."

"What about a thunderstorm, then?"

Sedona would admit to some surprise when an old woman suddenly approached and addressed her from behind, appearing as if from out of nowhere dressed in the steel of the Legion. She did a double take again, for the armor belonged to a Triarii, but there was not a one in her forces bearing such, and certainly no elderly. A glaive rested on her shoulder, held with the casual ease of one who knew its use.

"Who are you?" Constanta straightened her stance, eyes bearing down on the newcomer. This was not an Imperial soldier, she could tell as much. She could not see the face behind the helm, but somehow felt as if the old woman was watching Ser Gilmore far more than her.

"...present company considered, none of your business, Legate." There was a forced cheer to her voice, clear even through the helm. Constanta paused, trying to understand what was happening. There was something about the way this woman moved and spoke that betrayed something deeper, and beyond her ability to command; "I must say though, you've held on well. Shame about houses though."

"...what, exactly, are you then?" she asked instead, refusing such off-handed treatment; "Where did you get that armor, it's Imperial property."

"Made a stop by Gherlen's Pass, Cauthrien gave it to me." The old woman hummed, stepping past and towards the harbor. There was a slight limp in her gait, just barely noticeable, but not a speck of blood to be seen on her armor; "She's nice like that, though woefully ill prepared for Gaspard..."

"Why would Cauthrien give you armor belonging to the Legion?" And what was Legate Khaok doing, for allowing something like that? The Orc was no idiot, nor was he beholden to fancies of arming random civilians.

"...Gaspard De Chalons has made the crossing over the marsh at Kincaster, and currently approaches the River Dane with seven thousand men at arms and Chevaliers." The Legate froze, as did Ser Gilmore beside her, and any soldiers close enough to hear; "He's sent another seven thousand men south, to hit the Legion at the Pass in the back...Gather your forces and make for the Dane crossing, that's the only shot you get at stopping him. He makes it across that river, and Denerim lies open."

Questions flew throughout Constanta's mind, chief among them how this woman would even know, others how she could be trusted to even be telling the truth. The accent was close enough to Orlesian that she might well enough be a spy, someone sent to spread chaos and confusion. And, beyond it all, what to do about it. Gaspard's army was untouched and intact, hers was already bruised and battered.

Even if this was true, and she moved her forces to the Dane before he got there, could she actually stop him?

"...is this why you came back, Alma?" Ser Gilmore finally spoke up, and the last word, the name, was enough to make the steel-clad stranger freeze in her tracks. The knight as well, had stopped moving, and simply stood as a statue might, watching her; "We think you dead in the attack, and suddenly you appear brandishing arms and armor."

"...not entirely, Roland." The old woman, Alma, turned halfway towards them, face still concealed behind the Legionary helm; "You always were way too smart, you know. Smarter still, if you don't mention this to Eleanor."

With strength that did not belong to an old woman, and yet clearly was in her possession, Alma drove the butt of her weapon into the fractured street, shattering a tile that had somehow survived the bombardment.

"Take your men to the Dane, Legate." The old woman said, a command rather than the suggestion it had been at first. And somehow, Constanta found she could not offer an argument. The very notion was insane, that she be ordered by some complete stranger in such a way, and yet her mind reeled against trying to defy this woman; "There's no more need for them here."

The Legate and the knight both watched in silence, as did all those around them, when Alma started moving her arms. They were simple movements, merely up and down, as if to regulate the breathing of healers. Steam blew forth from the helm with each breath, louder and thicker each time.

Constanta took a step back, grasp upon her sword tightening if only a little.

The air thrummed, a slight vibration in the ground and in the skin of her fingers, and the hairs stood upon her neck. It was almost akin to a voice in the skies, a terrible wrath that hung above, as if the Divines themselves had come forth.

Thunder rolled across a starry sky, unbarred by clouds.

" _ **STRUN BAH QO!"**_


	27. The Dragon's Will

**The Dragon's Will**

* * *

The thunderstorm had rolled in too fast, and much too sudden, for Emanuel Sól, anointed admiral of the Divine Fleet, to consider it natural.

The stars had yet been clearly visible when last he'd looked upon the night sky, and yet now, somehow, a wall of clouds rolled across them, blanketing out their lights like a smothering hand. He gripped the woodwork of the ship's railings, staring at the city before them. Highever, it was hardly an imposing sight, and yet word had come back that it was more than well defended, despite no reports having mentioned such to be the case.

Divine Beatrix herself had entrusted him with this mission, a task of greatest importance. To lead the righteous, the defenders of the true faith all the way to Denerim, and smite the infidel leader nested there. And he would endeavor to fulfill this task, lest Ferelden be lost to the unbelievers for all time, and the souls of those therein condemned to whatever afterlife awaited those who abandoned the Maker.

"Admiral Sól, there are voices in the air!" one of the sailors ran up to him, nearly slipping on the deck as the waves started throwing themselves at the ship; "Listen!"

He knew, having noticed it himself already. Yet, he could not make out a single word spoken or shouted, and the voice remained one of rage and malice, ethereal and echoing across the waves, even as the stars and the moons vanished from sight, and the winds buffeted his ship.

"It's heathen devilry of some sort!" he shouted, for all around to hear; "Take heart, the Maker is with us, and foul spells of foreign gods have no power-!"

A flash turned the world white, darkness evaporating within demonic heat. The sound was so loud, his ears felt as if they had been torn to shreds, and all else was silence as the air was sucked away, and the deck erupted underneath him. It all lasted but for a moment, the pillar of lightning spitting his ship like a fisherman's spear, and the wood shattered and splintered.

What happened? Everything had been going to plan...

All around him, muffled and quiet, he could see the same act of unnatural wrath being wrought upon the other ships. The skies themselves spat fury like they had once under Andraste's command, as if the Maker himself had turned his back upon them, and now tore apart ships and men with greatest vengeance. The winds howled, yet he could barely sense them but for when splinters were hurled at his skin, deaf to the world as the lightning strike had rendered him.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Men threw themselves from their ships, even as the waves crashed higher than the masts, and lightning flashed too often for a man's eyes to bear. Emanuel clung to the railing when suddenly the deck shifted underneath him, the structure of his ship no longer capable of bearing itself upon the violent waves, broken nearly in half as it was.

Fear gripped him, his heart beating wildly as he saw the darkness of the deep approach. He scampered, desperately, crawling over the stern's railings as the ship now nearly faced straight down, and he himself could do little but hold on as the waves approached, his wooden island quickly disappearing into the wettest of graves.

He jumped, moments before the water reached him, and the waves hit him like a hammerblow. The world grew dark, and all consciousness went away.

* * *

Morning broke over Gherlen's Pass.

Cauthrien almost had not expected it to, not when the beacon from the Kincaster Marsh had been lit, and shone brightly through the night. Gaspard was amassing at the crossing, if he wasn't already past it, and might now well flank them, and crush the army from two directions at once.

She'd spent the better part of the night in council with the other officers, though chiefly it had been her and Legate Khaok doing the speaking, and the lesser officers and commanders paying rapt attention, as was due. For all of it though, they had been ill able to find a solution to what more and more now seemed a disastrous problem.

Until the scout came back, they had no idea how many men Gaspard had taken across the marsh, or whether he was still trying to cross or had already penetrated into Ferelden proper. All of it, pure speculation and dread, and she detested it all for being such.

The Legate had made the madman's suggestion of her pulling back the Fereldan forces, and leave his men to hold the pass on their own. She knew such would be to court death, and knew that he did so as well. If the Legion held the Pass, and Gaspard hit them from behind whilst her own men pulled back to safety, no matter how stout their hearts, it would be their deaths.

There had to be a limit to how much the Legion would be willing to sacrifice for their mandate. And all throughout the night, there'd been noises coming from the Orlesian camp, of timber and metal and hammers. They could do little but wait, and watch for strikes and movements.

When morning broke, it was to find a ditch that had been filled in the darkness of night. Cauthrien at first did not believe it, for the sheer amount of scouts they'd had on the hills would have caught on when such a workforce was mustered as was needed to erase such a barrier.

The conclusion was altogether too easy to reach, and more dreaded for it. Mages were in that force, and had likely been able to fill the ditch in a shorter span of time than they'd spent digging it. The Orlesians were going to strike, and now had one obstacle removed from their path.

It started as a rumbling in the distance, its source concealed behind the ridge.

Cauthrien was on the rampart, spyglass pressed to her eye as she watched for the first sign of an attack. There would be an attack today, she knew it. She knew it with every bone in her body, and now that it was clear Gaspard meant to flank them, it would only make sense for them to strike, and hold them her forces here with such tenacity that she could send nothing to halt the northern incursion.

Then, they came over the ridge.

"What in the...?" she blinked and withdrew the spyglass, rubbing on its surface for effect. And yet, even without the instrument, she could tell that it had shown her the truth. Several large, house-like constructions were moving in their direction, obviously powered by the men hidden within. Massive wheels rolled them forward, no doubt their size necessary to support the sheer amount of metallic plates and scales plastered over the constructs, like the tiles of a house; "Legate?"

"Galleries, seems like." The Orc huffed; "That's a problem."

"When they're in range of the battlemages, don't hesitate to start bombarding them, I don't care what with." She said, her voice low enough from frustration alone that likely only he could hear it; "Tell them to watch for enemy mages, and if need be shift fire onto those. We can't let those galleries get to the ramparts or the trenches, but we can't let battlemages blow apart the wall either."

The Orc nodded, clasping a fist over his chest. She mirrored the salute, watching him stomp off before turning back to the valley before her. The cry of a cock, somewhere in the distance, had her touch upon the pommel of her sword. She bit down and shook it off, recognizing the nerves for what they were, determined not to let them, or fear, rule her.

Khaok's bass voice echoed down the line, from gorge-wall to gorge-wall, waking up those yet asleep. She remained where she was, eyes locked on the approaching spectacles. She'd not expected galleries, simply for the large and slow targets that they were to any foe with siege engines or mages on hand. That they were covered entirely in iron and steel, however, presented a problem in and of itself. It also begged the question of just how many resources Gaspard was willing to throw at them in this attack, that he would sacrifice such quantities of metals.

The first of the galleries rolled across the filled ditch like a caterpillar, its crew entirely concealed behind a slanted front sheet of steel or iron. Its construction seemed crude and hasty, and yet moved forward with great speed for a lumbering engine of such size. It seemed almost segmented, a slight curve to its form where the metallic plates held gabs between them, all perfectly vertical, as if intended. Cauthrien could do little but grasp the wood before her, scowling at her foe.

How had they even transported these things here without the Aviatorii spotting them? The mages had hit the Orlesians on their way here, had they truly missed such engines, or had the Orlesians employed magic to construct them in the span of a mere night?

She could count five of them now, each many times as long as it was wide, and tall enough that a man could have ridden a horse within. It was a distasteful reminder of the disparity between their nations, that Orlais could throw such monsters at them. Behind her, the arms of trebuchets were being dragged down, the wood creaking with strain as boulders rolled into place. The artillery pits filled with soldiers, arming and preparing their machines

She tuned it out when the Orc bellowed the order to fire, and followed instead the trails of shimmering air dragged behind fireballs as they streaked forth, each a promise of violent destruction. They were focused on the center gallery, the behemoth of steel and wood advancing upon the paved road where its counterparts were slowed by caltrops and unstable ground.

The fireballs hit the mark as well as she had expected, exploding with great tremor and smoke and flashes, as flame and fire spread outwards like a blooming flower, the air itself becoming singed with heat. Yet, when the fire was gone, it had left the encroaching constructs untouched, nary even a spot of soot on the metal. But it was only when a flurry of ice spikes hailed in from one of the other platforms that Cauthrien understood why, and cursed the Maker's name under her breath. The spikes shattered before even touching the metal, and the faintest shimmer flickered around the rolling behemoth.

"Damn things are warded!" Khaok appeared at her side, his fangs bared with anger; "We can't hit them head on with spells." He turned to the nearest artillery pit where a Fereldan ballista stood at the ready, bolt already in place; "Shoot the damn things! Trebuchets too! Stop them before they reach the trenches!"

As the order went down the line, the ballista was the first to unload, hurling the meter-long spear at its target. She didn't expect it to do much, and so wasn't even surprised when it simply glanced off, not even making enough of a dent in the armor to stick.

If there was a silver lining to be found, it was the crawl with which the other galleries advanced, their crews no doubt troubled by the countless metallic spikes dotting the ground. Intended for the Chevaliers, she figured a human foot was just as vulnerable as that of a horse.

By then the trebuchet crews had turned their engines to target the gallery, and yanked out the cord. The great arm swung up and forward, dragging with it the boulder in its sling as the counterweight swung down, and released in such an angle that Cauthrien nearly feared it would hit the ground, rather than the target. Trebuchets were dangerous machines to use, and harder still to aim.

The boulder struck ground for all that it was aimed, several meters before the approaching foe, shattering tiles and stone as it bounced, hitting the front of the gallery only with a far too weak, metallic _thud_. It was rolled aside by the narrowed front of the construct, almost like a ship would a fisherman's tiny boat. The other four trebuchets along the line loosened as well, hurling their greetings at the uninvited guests. Three of them actually hit the broader target that was the gallery's side, caving in plates and breaking the timber structure underneath.

It did not stop the Orlesians from advancing, at best rattling those within a little, and made them veer slightly off course. Though, Cauthrien could allow herself a smile as she watched the approach the runes. Dozens of them, etched into the ground by the Legion's mages, glowing ever so softly in the early morning's light. They covered a band of several meter's thickness from one end of the pass to the other, awaiting only the first foot to step upon them.

Her heart sank somewhat when they began detonating ahead of the constructs, breaking into fire and flame and shrapnel when the arcane bubble protecting the foe touched their perimeters, leaving the galleries themselves largely untouched. She beat a fist into the palisade, willing herself not to shout and yell with anger and frustration at the ease with which Orlais was suddenly overcoming their defenses.

Her anger did not stop the Orlesians, nor even slow them for a moment. At the same time, the galleries on both sides of the center one started closing in, falling behind or moving ahead of one another as if orchestrated to do so. Cauthrien could only watch in morbid fascination at the level of coordination, and saw now that they really were segmented when the galleries began twisting to fit in behind one another, so close they could have touched.

"What the _Fade_ are they up..." she halted herself when a notion struck her, one almost too terrible to consider, and yet would make perfect sense from what she saw. She grabbed the nearest soldier and pointed him at the signal towers; "Get them to signal a retreat from the trenches. NOW!"

There was no question asked, the man simply running as fast as steel-clad boots could take him. She turned back to the sight before her, the Orlesians now halfway to the ramparts. The archers and scorpions on the hills had yet to open up, likely knowing they could do little now but wait. Her eyes instead came to rest on the trenches, where men with crossbows and pikes awaited either command or contact. They could do little in truth but wait and watch, for she could see no way they could halt the galleries, each large and long enough to pack hundreds of soldiers. The trenches did not.

Not even a minute went by before the horns sounded, three consecutive and clear blasts to signal the emptying of the trenches. A waste, it seemed, in particular now that it was evident what the enemy intended. Almost as if they'd known every step of their plans to halt them, and countered it in advance. Yet, no, then they would not have jumped so eagerly into the ditch and a fiery death. _Would that they did all the...same..._

Cauthrien stopped, snapping her head to the nearest ballista where the crew seemed to debate whether to even bother shooting at the approaching constructs.

"The liquid fire bombs, they fit in your slides, right?" she only waited for one to nod, if hesitating. They were not meant to be shot from ballistae, she knew that much, even if they were more solidly made than the Antivan fire flasks. Not that they actually _had_ the latter on hand at all, but the Empire's own versions were meant to be used against infantry, and at very close range; "Well, load the damn things already then!"

Well, to be fair the only real difference was that the Imperial firebombs spread fragments when they exploded. It wasn't really going to be a major advantage when the people she wanted incinerated were behind metal plates.

The crew did as they were told, even if it took painfully long by her account. Cauthrien ground her teeth at their pace, far too slow in her eyes, especially when the enemy was rolling closer and closer by the moment, and soon enough would be too close for the trebuchets to reliably hit without risking them striking the ramparts. The spherical clay-container rolled into place, securely strapped before the soldier even _touched_ the release, much less lit the cloth.

"Aim it at the top front of the first gallery." She pointed at the target; "Let's see if they're prepared for this."

The first of the galleries had by now reached the trenches, all of them evacuated and empty, leaving it a mere hundred meters out from the ramparts. Cauthrien had no intentions of letting it come closer, and waved a hand for the ballista to launch. The machine bucked with strain as its arms yanked the slide forward, hurling the clay-ball at the Orlesians with the speed of a regular bolt.

Somehow it still seemed slow.

The clay ball cracked open upon striking the gallery, dead center for once, and spilled out its contents in the blink of an eye it took for the flammable liquids to touch the still-burning cloth. The ignition was instantaneous, and the fires now seeped down through the plates, and screams followed suit from within.

"Keep firing." She wasn't intending on giving the Orlesians even a moment's respite, now that she'd found a weakness. The gallery had stopped, probably to get the burned men out of the way and uninjured ones to replace them. But they'd move again soon enough, she knew; "Don't stop until every wagon's on fire."

She left them to it there, instead walking down the line to pass on similar orders to the other crews, those yet in the dark of what had happened. It pleased her immensely to find Legate Khaok already in the process of instructing onagers crews in similar use of firepots, theirs somewhat larger than what could fit in a ballista.

"Good thinking, General." The Orc greeted her, the snarl finally replaced with what likely was the closest he could come to expressing relief. She nodded, allowing herself a small, if grim smile behind her helmet. They'd intended to use the firepots for when the Orlesians took the trenches, but this served them just as well, if not better; "We'll have those shits incinerated soon enough."

When the sun had finally reached its zenith, Cauthrien could stand upon the ramparts and look down upon the wagon train of armored galleries, their crews escaping out the back in a disorderly stream. Flames licked the frame underneath the plates, the result of a bombardment of firepots and enough fireballs to finally break the protective wards, setting the armored shelter ablaze.

"They'll try again." Legate Khaok grumbled at her side, arms crossed as he watched the same sight as she; "We used up almost all the firepots, and unless you've got them stored nearby, we're not gonna get more."

"If we do, I'm not privy to it..." of course he was going to drop her mood down a notch, she frowned. The Orc idly picked at his fangs, eyes hard on the backs of the fleeing Orlesians; "I didn't expect Gaspard to have such tools at his disposal...or, that he'd have them, and use them on us."

"You've shown him Ferelden's not as weak as he thought." Khaok huffed; "Doesn't take away from the little problem that he's already made it across the marsh."

"...no, I don't suppose it does." She sighed; "Do we have anything new, on what they're doing?"

"Not much." He shrugged; "Scout came back, only reported the army having made a stop a bit south of Portsmouth...It's big, at least ten thousand men. He's got the Chevaliers there too, and a lot of a folks in robes."

"How the fuck did they cross the marsh without the Ash Warriors managing to light the beacons?" that was the part she just couldn't comprehend, and it bugged her incessantly; "Even if they'd swam across or shot fireballs on sleeping men, the dogs would have caught on before they'd get into range."

"Dunno your Ash Warriors, so I couldn't say." He muttered; "Found the lot of them dragged off in bushes though, hounds too. Throats were slit but they'd not bled much, meaning they'd already been dead when the knife came down."

"Poison, then?" she asked; "Magic?"

"Probably." He shrugged, rolling his shoulders under segmented armor; "Not like we can do much about it now. I'll send outriders north and east, to check the perimeter, but if Gaspard sends his forces at our backs, it'd be best if you take your men and-"

"No." Cauthrien turned to glare at the Orc, which required her to crane her neck back, Khaok standing a full head taller than her; "There's a limit to how much blood I'll let the Legion sacrifice while Ferelden's own soldiers cower back and lick our wounds."

The Orc glowered at her in turn, fangs bared and something uncouth probably held back behind them. She held his stare though, unwilling to back down. The men around them paused, wary eyes watching the two officers to see who would give first. Cauthrien wondered that herself, pitched against the mountain of steel and muscle that was Khaok. He was too damn duty-bound for his own good, and that of his men. She'd never understand the borderline reverence the Imperials had for their mandate, as if handed down by the gods themselves.

She paused, frowning as she caught herself in the last treads of those thoughts. _Gods_ , or a God? She hated and loathed the doubt that'd been sown in her life now, with the Chantry walking the butcher's path and the supposed heathens putting themselves at risk for utter strangers. The Orc seemed to think the frown meant for him, and snorted.

" _Fine_ , General." She refrained from blinking when he was the one to back down. Somehow he made it sound as if she was being a child about this, rather than he; "But I'll have men dig ditches and stake our rear, so we'll at least have a warning before Gaspard's Chevaliers ride us all down."

Cauthrien nodded, not sure if her words would hold or quiver, her heart already skipping a step at the thought of the Orc actually going against her command. What could she do then, if he did? And why did she feel as if it would hurt beyond her authority? Comradeship was a strange thing to share with beings as inhuman as Orcs.

Pushing those thoughts away, she instead sent for ale and bread for the men, the time already much past breaking fast, and already past midday's meal as well.

* * *

In the months that had passed since the first Imperial soldier had set foot upon the piers of Laysh, the town had undergone something of a transformation.

Rising from the fjord, just a dozen meters off the shore of the coast, a tower of brick and mortar stood as if it had sprouted from the seabed. It was crowned by a windmill, a simple and rugged construction that served its function to power the pumps within the tower, and drive water into the town through pipes of magically shaped clay buried underground, to be boiled and desalinated for the benefits of its citizens.

Further from the shore, where the piers had been remade in stone, the streets had been widened and repaired, and the mages of Tamriel had worked themselves to the bone to replace stamped earth and cobblestones with tiles of sandstone and granite, hewn from the northern quarries. The houses and homes that had been ruined by the fires when the Darkspawn attacked had been replaced, and the town's garrison now had proper barracks and drilling grounds, and an armory to store and maintain its equipment.

Where Laysh ended outwards, the walls had been reinforced and expanded upon, fresh timber replacing what had slowly decayed and then hacked and ruined by Darkspawn, and blocks of granite and baked bricks filled out where sundried brick had once stood, all built to the standards of the Legion, if not Constructii. Atronachs had torn through the dry, near-lifeless soil beyond the walls, and the desalinated waters from within the town, as well the waste from its people had left it fertile enough that lines upon lines of potatoes and carrots and cabbage now decorated the new fields, as did the people working there upon.

"You've done well here, Optio." Legate Veruin Kratorius nodded in appreciation, taking in the sight. At his side stood Optio Sevilius, the grizzled lower officer remaining at attention, though his arms were crossed before him; "I must confess I did not expect such efficiency from a mere Quastor, and still Optio seems lowly for your accomplishments."

"Thank you, Sir." It was strange, but Veruin could have sworn the man seemed younger than when he'd left Laysh behind. He'd admittedly only rarely interacted with those below Centurion, but at the same time someone who'd been a soldier as long as Lucius Sevilius eventually made themselves noticed. The man's demotion had not been of the Legate's doing. Such affairs were usually handled by the Military Council in Leyawiin, where the Tenth was garrisoned in times of peace.

"How have the men handled living alongside the locals?" Centurion Mallin asked, keeping her eyes on the fields below. It was hard to tell Legionary from local, now that they worked stripped of their armor in the heat. It was a little amusing, to see lines and lines of armor stacked along the fields, as if marking a border. The Centurion, be she saint or Andraste reborn, no longer walked about lacking for an arm. Though, the replacement the Hossberg Chantry and King Augustin had granted her was somewhat...overtly elegant, it was a surprisingly well made prosthesis, pure steel with a small winch allowing for its fingers to close around a sword, and not simply slip open again. He could admire such craftsmanship.

"There's been very few problems, Ma'am." Sevilius replied, nodding to himself, eyes lingering on his superior's new limb for a moment longer; "We've only accumulated more goodwill, I think, from providing clean and untainted drinking water."

"Makes for better ale too, that does." The Grey Warden, Alexander Hermann, chuckled. Veruin had had only limited interaction with most of the Laysh's people prior to his departure to Hossberg, but he knew of the man by the Centurion's stories alone; "It's almost offensive, to think we used to drink that swill..."

"Has there been any news from Weisshaubt?" Veruin asked.

"Nothing much, aside from the Order offering its thanks for your defense of the town, and interest in your desires to cleanse the Anderfels of Darkspawn." Hermann hummed; "I've put in every good word I've been able to, but I think they're wary still, of what all this change means. Gaspard's gone to war with Ferelden and your kinsmen down south, now they're afraid your presence here's going to make him stop by Hossberg after Denerim. Divine Beatrix has launched an Exalted March too, as if the Orlesian army wasn't enough."

"We knew it'd happen, sooner or later." The Legate sighed, rubbing at his chin; "Belisarius is a tough old bastard though, he'll hold. At least, he just has to hold for a bit longer, then we'll give Gaspard something to _really_ worry about."

General Tullus would soon enough make landfall, if all went well. Already there'd been severe delays, almost enough to make him worry for the state of their reinforcements. The rest of the Tenth was supposed to have arrived in the early or midst of Rain's Hand, and now it was nearly the end of Second Seed. But they had, at last, received word a week past that the Legion was on its way across the sea. Five thousand more men, then they'd have a fighting chance against whatever Gaspard could throw at them.

It was hard not to gush at the thought, in truth. Not only would he no longer be responsible for everything that happened in this theatre, but the Legion proper coming to the Anderfels meant artillery, fresh supplies, horses, skilled armorers and blacksmiths, Constructii, engineers, architects and more. And best of all, no more politicking and playing at diplomat. He could leave the ambassadors to whatever they so chose to do, or were told to do, and go back to being an honest, gods-fearing soldier.

"Mmm..." the Warden nodded, frowning as he glanced at the sea; "Speaking of making Gaspard shit his breeches, how many men did you say your emperor was sending?"

"The rest of the Tenth, roughly five thousand men, plus assorted workers and craftsmen..." Kratorius explained, turning to find out what had made the Warden frown. He stopped, uncertain at what his eyes were showing him.

There were ships on the horizon, which in itself brought him joy regardless. It was General Tullus, though there was a problem with the amount of ships in sight. Veruin squinted, quietly counting the ships he could tell apart. He stopped, somewhat confused, when he reached thirty, and there were more yet, maybe forty ships in total? _Each ship takes half a cohort by standard, that'd be two hundred and fifty, times forty, that's..._

"...gotta be a lot of workers then." Hermann muttered, though there was no answer from the Legate.

Veruin had forgotten how to speak.

* * *

 **Curiosity struck me a few days back, when I was writing the Highever segment. I've added so many new characters to this story at this point, I wonder who you view as the actual protagonists, and who remain in the role of supporting characters, of sorts?**


	28. Invicta Imperii

**The very existence of Fanfiction authors is a pretty weird concept, once you think about it.**

 **We pour countless hours of our lives into writing stories for complete strangers, for little gain but the response we get that others have enjoyed what we wrote, and with no possibility of ever actually making a living from the works we've writtten. I'm pretty sure, all the same, that every writer reading this will agree that, strangely, merely knowing we can bring enjoyment to others is well worth all the strain we're subjected to when toiling away before the screen till we get eyes just as square.**

 **Even more is the joy we can feel when we can respond to those who take the time to offer an opinion, be it good or bad, on what we've made. There's a strange happiness to the whole process, and not one I'm really sure I know how to put into words. It's a bit like a Youtuber who continues to make videos, even if everything they put out is immediately demonitized by a glitchy algorithm. They still do it, because it makes others happy.**

 **I've personally got a bit of an agenda behind my writing, of course. Maybe we all do, I don't know. I want to be good enough to one day publish works of my own, and not just fanfiction written over universes and worlds crafted by others. I look at the first time I started typing down a story, way back in 2012, and I can only accept that I've improved (after resisting the urge to commit Sepppuku when realizing how bad my writing once was) and that mostly, that's because I've had people who read what I wrote, and commented on what they liked and didn't like. Sometimes that's been in less generous terms than others, but all the same it's helped me improve.**

 **Now, all that's out of the way, let's get on with the show, yes-yes?**

* * *

 **Invicta Imperii**

* * *

Amaranthine Arling was one of the wealthier in Ferelden, and it was proudly displayed in every village and hamlet they'd crossed through it.

Talia had to admit, even as they drew closer to Vigil's Keep, that she felt a strange sense of nostalgia when seeing the obvious prosperity of the settlements and their people. Amaranthine Arling had grown rich and fat off its benevolent Teyrns, and the trade with the Free Marches and Antiva, and to a lesser extent even Orlais itself.

"It's a different sight when you're off the Highway, isn't it?" Aedan mused, a small smile playing on his face as they rode. Pebbles pranced underneath her as she nudged her up closer to him; "Amaranthine's always been wealthy, even before the Orlesian occupation it was one of the richer areas in Ferelden. Aside from Nathaniel's father, the Howe's have done well with the land. It helps when half of Thedas wants our fur and timber, too."

"And Nathaniel's in charge of that now?" she couldn't well imagine such a scrawny, dour-looking kid presiding over such an operation, but...on the other hand, the whole thing probably almost ran itself at this point, and he'd only have to give it the occasional nudge or kick in the direction he'd like; "Dunno whether I envy or pity him."

"Brelyna's in Amaranthine right now, isn't she?" Aedan asked, bringing her attention back to the other reason she was going there. Aside from Alma's directions, which at best could be called vague, they'd heard people on the road speak of a grey lady in Amaranthine, healing the ailments of those within the city. Unless there were more Dunmer in Ferelden she didn't know of, that'd be a pretty good bet on Brelyna being in her usual, charismatic mood; "City's not exactly the most... _lawful_ , I've heard."

"You're worried she'll kill someone?" Talia asked, half-joking. Because, really, it wouldn't be that big of a stretch to imagine her friend trying to help the city by vaporizing some half-corrupt clerk or alleyway mugger. It'd probably also bite her in the end when people got so afraid of her they'd sic what Templars remained on her; "...actually...maybe we should go there first, after all."

"Alma warned you something was going on in Amaranthine, and Vigil's Keep is where every report on anything important will be gathered." Aedan argued, visibly still uncomfortable with speaking the old crone's name; "Plus, Nathaniel owes us, and you, his life. I'm fairly sure he'll do whatever he can to help, and better to have the Arl in our back than not."

"...that's true, I guess." She wasn't exactly a fan of it, but Aedan was right. And it wasn't like she disliked Nathaniel, she just didn't really _know_ him. In hindsight that might be a pretty shit excuse for wanting to skip past Vigil's Keep and go straight to the provincial capital instead.

All the same, she longed to see her friend again. J'zargo was, she assumed, still in Highever, doing gods knew what to pass the time, but Brelyna she had at least managed to pin down to Amaranthine. Spending the better part of a month away from the Dunmer only made Talia realize how damn much she missed her. And unless something insane went down, like the city blowing up or a Darkspawn horde attacking, she felt confident about this.

Amaranthine was going to be a good time.

* * *

"General."

It was Centurion Pullo again, pushing open the doors as he was at this point so wont. Belisarius had little time to stop him, and had not exactly instructed the guards to keep messengers away. And so the bald-shaven officer entered into the middle of a meeting with the monarchs, stopping dead in his tracks upon realization.

Fergus, at least, seemed almost amused. The king was an odd sort, the Legate had come to think, a man of a far too grounded mind for the higher balconies of royalty, and yet seemed well able to handle the duties that followed.

"...Centurion Pullo." Still, there was no berating the man for his entrance, and Belisarius knew as much. Especially as it was clear the centurion understood his presence to have been uninvited, and seemed hesitant on whether to even proceed; "I assume you have news?"

"Yes, General." The man nodded, taking it as his cue to approach. A scroll was in his hand, bearing the black, unopened seal of great urgency. And yet, despite it being unopened, the centurion's expression was enough to betray his knowledge of its contents, at least to some degree. _Intelligence indeed..._ "It's from General Cauthrien, and there's also a message from Legate Constanta, verbally relayed by messenger from Highever."

"Verbally relayed?" he frowned, unsure of how to react to that, in particular because of its source, that the overtly meticulous woman would choose a method so easily corrupted to relay a report; "From Legate Constanta?"

"Yes, General." Pullo nodded, stepping back; "Although...I think it best to leave it for last."

There was a moment of silence, wherein the General wondered what the man could mean with such a cryptic response. Still, all the same there was a black-sealed message in his grasp, signifying an event of greater importance than whatever could have been relayed by mouth and messenger. He tore the seal open, quietly enjoying the small triumph it was over the Divine bitch to have regained use of the hand and arm he'd retained.

"There are different colors depending on the importance of the message?" Queen Anora asked, both of him and of the Centurion. The contents of the message, however, left Belisarius too distracted to answer, and so instead it was Pullo.

"Yes, Majesty." The man nodded; "Blue seals and ribbons are standard messages and reports, usually of readiness or the state of equipment. Red and black seals signify something of greater importance than usually, and are often reserved for matters of urgency."

Belisarius, meanwhile, had finished the report, his body shaking with fury.

"That son of a painted Aldmeri whore..." he couldn't even raise his voice enough to shout, such was the anger in his soul and mind; "Gaspard assassinated the scouts at Kincaster crossing, and has already made it as far in as Portsmouth, with at least ten thousand men."

"...what." King Fergus breathed, his face paling; "What? How? You _can't_ sneak past Mabari, that's _why_ we used the Ash Warriors as scouts in the first place!"

"But...but this leaves Gherlen's Pass completely exposed." Anora whispered; "He can strike them from the rear and crush the entire Legion in one blow!"

"The Legion _is_ aware, Majesty." Belisarius scowled; "But General Cauthrien has refused to evacuate the Pass with the Fereldan forces and fall back to the Dane crossing or Redcliffe. Doing so would at least allow for some tactical leeway, and we can't take Legate Constanta's forces to the Dane until we've dealt with the Chantry's ships... _damn it all_."

"So...what do we do, then?" Fergus was the first to ask, his voice something near defeat.

"General, the report from Legate Constanta..." Pullo spoke up, earning a sour look, though inwardly Belisarius knew the man did not deserve it.

"Unless she's reporting it decided to ram itself into the cliffs..." he sighed, closing his one eye; "Fine, then, what is it?"

"It's the Chantry's fleet, General..." the Centurion seemed as if he feared the next words. Had it already destroyed Highever, and the Legate's forces, or bypassed them entire to reach Amaranthine before their own ships could muster; "It's...been destroyed."

Belisarius knew he was called a great many things, but neither gullible nor overtly optimistic had ever been among them. As such, the stare he leveled onto the Centurion, as were those of the monarchs in his company, was one of disbelief and confusion.

"...come again, soldier?"

"Legate Constanta reports that...the Chantry Fleet was destroyed in a storm, by...the Thu'um." Pullo looked like the very notion would have made the hair stand upon his head, had they been long enough; "She claims that a Tongue appeared as if out of nowhere, wearing the Legion's armor, and shouted the skies into a furious thunderstorm that shattered the Chantry's ships."

"A _Tongue_ appeared?"

"Yes, General. That is what she claims."

"A _Tongue_." Belisarius repeated the word, itself bordering on the mythical. The very notion had what few hairs he still had, standing straight on goosebumps, and a shiver ran his spine; "Appeared in Highever, and _shattered_ the Chantry's fleet?"

"Yes, General." The Centurion seemed to share in the reverence of the word, though it was clear neither Anora nor Fergus understood what it meant, only what it had done to the ships. And yet still, he found it bordering on the impossible to even contemplate as, well, _possible_. There hadn't been a _Tongue_ in the Legion since...well, disregarding Ulfric Stormcloak, _Tiber Septim_ himself; "The Legate has mustered her forces and now makes for the Dane crossing, at behest of the Tongue, though one of the local knights recognized-"

"Sweet Akatosh, Arkay, Stendarr, Mara and Kynareth!" he would have jumped, had he been able, but yet still the jolt of his scaled body betrayed his relief. He almost laughed, and in truth found it hard to resist such; "By the gods, by every Pantheon and all the divines, that I should live to see such come to pass."

"General...Belisarius, if I may..." Anora was the first of the monarchs to speak up, her husband currently chewing on his fist, though he failed to fully force down the stupid smile behind it. The General knew he likely wore one of his own; "What exactly _is_ a tongue, bar what we all have? A mage of some sort?"

"I..." he paused, swallowing air before he could speak. It forced a hiccup, if nothing else it helped calm his mood when it stretched the sore skin of his throat; "It's...It's hard to explain."

Harder still to imagine.

"A _Tongue_...I'm barely even certain of how to put it but to compare them to the forces of nature, a storm in the shape of mortals. They can flatten forests and crumble walls with mere words, their voices of such power that to hear them used in anger is to hear Akatosh himself." He blinked, wishing he could gesticulate better than one arm would allow for; "They are...they are people, mortals blessed with the affinity to speak the words of power, to use the...the _Voice_. The Nords call it the language of Dragons, but...beyond the Dragonborn, I thought..."

He chuckled, at last, a sound he'd not heard from his own mouth in ages. And what of it, then? What did it matter, in truth, if the Fereldans understood the significance of this blessing or not? Before the Centurion had entered, he'd thought the war a losing one, and yet now he could only see victory ahead. There was a _Tongue_ in Ferelden, demonstratively set against the Chantry, and logic would dictate against Gaspard as well.

"...I thought us all consigned to death, if I am to be earnest." He sighed, leaning back as he allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe; "I had planned for your evacuation to the Anderfels, for if the Chantry broke the blockade at Amaranthine, or the Orlesians broke through Gherlen's Pass. You...you do not _plan_ for a Tongue to just... _appear_."

"So, this means the tide has turned?" the King had managed to calm himself down, it seemed speaking now with what almost could be taken for his normal tone of voice, if not for the eagerness betrayed within.

"First, we need to find this Tongue." Belisarius held up his only hand to stall the monarch; "And considering whomever it is seems to have been hiding within my forces for who knows how long, it might not be an easy task."

"...General?"

"...You're still here, Centurion?" in truth he'd forgotten all about the poor man, in all the eagerness and rejoice. Pullo had remained where he was, as if there was yet more news to come, or if he was simply awaiting dismissal; "Send a message back to Legate Constanta. We have to know who the Tongue is, where the _hell_ he came from, and then send him here straight away."

"...Sir, I was about to mention that before."

"Mention what? Before what?"

"Before, Sir." The Centurion repeated, as if that was an answer; "Legate Constanta reported that one of Highever's knights seemed to recognize the Tongue by name. It's...I'm not sure how to interpret it."

"Speak, Centurion." Belisarius said, and it was not a suggestion, nor a request; "Do we know the Tongue's name?"

"...Alma, General." Pullo said, and for a moment the General was damn sure he could hear the assembled Daedric princes laughing their asses off at his behalf, or expense. There was also a curious little sound, like the snap of his sanity; "Almost certainly the same Alma as the one at Gherlen's Pass..."

Belisarius' chuckle became an outright laugh.

This was simply too insane.

"Alma?" Fergus was the one to ask, a frown on his face as he turned towards the Centurion; "Who did you say recognized this woman?"

"It was one of Highever's knights, Majesty." Pullo replied, standing straighter than he'd do with Belisarius, likely still uncertain of how to act in the presence of actual royalty. The General was common-born, and so did not exactly carry the same air of inborn authority.

"Just Fergus, please." The King waved his hand; "I was born in Highever, you see."

"Of course." There was no 'Fergus' to follow that up, though no 'Majesty' either; "According to the messenger, it was the knight Ser Roland Gilmore who addressed the woman as 'Alma' "I think the Legate might have implied that he knew her, or at least knew of her, but the message did not specify."

"Do you know if she was armed in any way?" Fergus continued, his question making little sense to Belisarius. Whether or not a Tongue carried a weapon was borderline irrelevant, as there was no greater weapon than the Voice. The power of the Dragonborn was a testament to that.

"I'm sorry. There was nothing in the message about her state of arms, only that she wore the Legion's plate." Belisarius nodded, waving the man off. He'd served well, to bring them such news, and could go rest.

"Still, it's almost too much of a coincidence..." the King muttered, drawing his wife's attention, which he seemed aware of, as was he of Belisarius' own; "Back during the Blight, when I acted as scout during the battle of Ostagar, my men and I were ambushed by Darkspawn."

"Yes, I've heard the story from Ser Teagan..." the General nodded; "How is this a coincidence, though?"

"...I was to die, by a Hurlock's axe that night." Fergus gained a look in his eyes, as if he was very far away indeed; "I was the last man left alive when they finally caught up to me, I'd run I'll admit it but to little avail. Then, out of the darkness came this old woman, and I did not in truth believe my ears when she spoke, as she cut through the Darkspawn with her glaive. I'd seen the weapon before, as a child exploring the castle and ended up in my old Nan's quarters..."

"Her name was Alma?" Belisarius frowned, to which the King merely nodded; "...and she was your nan?"

"I know, when all this has been revealed it seems an impossible thing." He chuckled; "All the same, I'd think the similarities enough to wish to meet with this 'Tongue', of yours, and see for myself."

"I must admit I find the notion hard to believe, yes..." Belisarius muttered; "That a _Tongue_ has hid away here as a nan for...how long?"

"I was born before she came to Highever, but she helped bring my brother to the world...maybe twenty years?" Fergus said, scratching at his chin; "You seem as if the name means something to you as well, General?"

It did, and he supposed he could return in kind knowledge shared. It was hardly so secret that he could or would keep it from a Cousland, of all people, nor the Queen herself. And there was a levity to his soul now that hadn't been there before, as if news of the Tongue alone had taken all the weight of the war from his shoulders.

"For the past few months, the Legion has been keeping an eye on your sister-in-law, Talia Aulus." He began, earning a frown from the king, but a mere nod from the queen; "Not for anything nefarious, mind you, we simply keep track of all powerful mages, especially if they're Imperials."

"Talia is a Breton though." Anora remarked.

"Imperials aren't only the people of Cyrodiil, Queen Anora." Belisarius explained; "It also extends to all its subjects, including the nobility of provinces such as High Rock. The Aulus House, to my knowledge, has always been one of the Emperor's strongest and most loyal supporters, and enjoy his favor for it. The Legion kept an eye on her, in case the need should come to request her assistance in the defense of Ferelden."

"Except she's a Grey Warden." The Queen remarked again; "They're entirely neutral."

"That'd not be relevant, as it'd be the Legion, not Ferelden requesting her aid. We're not bound by your political restrictions, and we'd be asking her as a member of Imperial Nobility, not as a Fereldan." Not that he could not respect the institution for what it was, and understood well enough the need for its neutrality; "Roughly at the same time we started paying close attention to her, we also noticed someone else doing the same. My reports would come in, speaking of an old woman in the background. At first I just thought it paranoia by my men..." he turned to Fergus; "...but then she went to Oxford with your brother."

"Yes, I've heard..." the King mulled; "Though I've yet to find out why, when they were to follow the northern Highway back to Highever."

"Apparently she was to meet with someone." Belisarius said; "The potioneer of Oxford seemed to expect her, but was averse to the presence of your brother, as was he to hers it seemed."

"Then it can't have been Alma..." Fergus shook his head; "Aedan loved Nan even more than I did."

"All the same he seemed to know her well enough." He muttered; "She went by the name of 'Leliana' in Oxford, a name we suspect to have been forged to draw Aulus' attention, given her deceased comrade."

"Leliana?" the King frowned.

"The Orlesian girl." Anora explained; "She was romantically involved with Alistair Therein, I think, but both were lost in the battle for the city."

"I don't suppose this could still be a coincidence?" Fergus sighed; "Still, what exactly is your point?"

"I'm not entirely sure myself." Belisarius admitted; "The last hour has entirely changed my perception of where the Empire stands, if a Tongue could appear decades before we even knew of your people's existence. What I do know, is that there is a Tongue in Ferelden, and that for now at least the Exalted March has been destroyed. What remains now is to deal with Gaspard's forces, though even without the March to worry about, without the Tongue we're still at a loss."

"Optimism sure does come and go easily with you, doesn't it?"

"I like to think it helps keep me from the greater disappointments in life." he could have smiled a little at the frown on the King's face; "Considering the Empire knew nothing of Alma's existence as a Tongue, her loyalties to Tamriel are hardly guaranteed. Nonetheless she defended Highever from the Chantry, so at least we can use that."

"She did not defend it against Howe, though." Anora remarked, and a scowl settled on the King's face; "I do not believe we should so easily believe her loyal to us either, at least not without further investigation."

"Meaning?" Fergus asked.

"Husband, much as I understand if you feel some ties to this woman, especially after what we learned today, we know far too little, and I barely even understand _what_ she is supposed to be." Anora said, putting her hand on her husband's; "If... _Alma_ , was going to do anything we said at all, why would she not have come here herself? Were she loyal to anything but her own emotions, do you not think she would have come forth and offered her services? All we know is that she seems interested in Talia, and I care not for it."

"I suppose..." he muttered, turning to Belisarius; "What do you propose then, General?"

There was a moment's silence, in which he weighed his options. Today, indeed, seemed a day of the unexpected. He was uncertain of how to best take advantage of what was being offered.

"For now, we let Legate Constanta hold the Dane Crossing, provided she makes it there before Gaspard." He sighed, eying the map between them; "When the Aviatorii arrive at Soldier's Peak, they will be redirected to support Constanta. Provided Gaspard's mages do not go much above and beyond what I understand as the abilities of Circle mages, they will rout his forces, and join up with General Cauthrien to drive back the army besieging Gherlen's Pass..."

"And then?" Anora pressed, reminding Belisarius that he had slipped up in the exhaustion it was to direct a losing war, and left them unaware of the Tenth's arrival; "Gaspard will not be likely to merely accept defeat, especially not when his forces so greatly outnumber ours."

"...forgive me, I've neglected to tell you of this because of the stress, but there is a plan in motion to end this war." He shook his head, though it was an action he regretted almost immediately, the sore skin burning with strain; "The rest of the Tenth Legion will soon arrive in Laysh, in the Anderfels. General Gratianus Tullus has been granted the privilege of Legio Primus, and has ten thousand men under his command. He's a great tactician and leader of men, you'd like him I think."

"Ten thousand won't win a war with Orlais, General." Fergus' expression was somber.

"No need to win a war" Belisarius allowed himself a smirk; "Rather just one battle."

* * *

Legate Kratorius stood at attention, as did every man and woman of the Sixth Cohort, and every single recruit of the garrison.

His armor was polished and shone, and his helmet's crest carefully combed so that every hair upon it stood straight and smooth, as if on the day it was taken from horse's mane. His sword was sheathed, its pommel gleaming with the camel-fat he'd meticulously rubbed it with to better make the steal shine, and not a speck of mud or dirt was to be found upon him, neither on his armor nor his face.

Likewise, the rest of the officers of the Cohort, from Centurion Mallin and down to the lowest of Quastors, shone and stood straight with pride. He understood their pride, for what they had accomplished in Laysh was worthy of it, and more. They'd turned the town on its head in the span of months, and transformed it into a place worthy of actually living. Soon enough, it would have proper industry, better fields and better sanitation.

His men might be proud, but he was damnably prouder of them still.

The lead ship was a Hexareme, a massive galley that spanned half a hundred meters in length, and could likely have carried the entire Cohort upon its upper deck alone. The name was misleading, as it stemmed from a time where such vessels had propelled themselves on the backs of oarsmen, whereas now it was the sails that did the pulling. Yet the name had remained, and none saw with to change it.

The wood seemed brighter than most ships he'd served on, and the sails bore stronger colors, betraying that it probably was a rather new vessel. Each sail bore the Imperial Dragon in its stylized image, and a simple, black **X** underneath. At its head, an ornately carved dragon spread its wings on both sides of the bow, rising above a thick, bronze-plated ram that rose up, just enough to be visible above the waves. Cannon-ports stared back from underneath both the dragon's wings, betraying the ship's armaments even before he could see its broadsides. Towers rose across the ship's deck, and he could make out dozens of regularly spaced cannon-ports on the side of the ship as it neared.

"By the gods, what a ship..." he muttered to himself, taken aback and in awe of its presence. That such a vessel was dedicated to this campaign, if nothing else it cemented the Emperor's will to see this war won. It was no mere Hexareme, he realized, but damn well a dreadnought worthy of name. He'd have liked to see what warships of Orlais could match themselves with such a monster.

When General Gratianus Tullus, General of the Tenth Legion and seasoned commander and veteran, pirate hunter and law bringer, stepped foot upon the piers of Laysh, it was to the resounding, uniform cheer of the Sixth Cohort.

"INVICTA TULLUS! INVICTA IMPERII! INVICTA IMPERATOR!"

While it was indeed tradition to welcome generals of the Empire in such a manner, it being tradition made it no less genuine, as the sons and daughters of Tamriel welcomed their supreme commander to Thedas. The man's beard hid whether he smiled or remained stoic at such a greeting, though his powerful bulk seemed to suggest the former, his posture that of a father proud of his sons and daughters. For, in earnest, they were indeed just so. Good generals became more than mere superiors to their men, and Tullus of Bravil was one of the best.

"Legate Kratorius." Veruin stiffened and straightened himself when the General, each step a heavy stomp of steel and leather and muscle upon the freshly laid stone, stopped before him. Veruin was not a small man, yet Tullus easily towered a head above, and had led men to gossip that his ancestors were Orcs.

"General Tullus, Sir." He clasped his hand before his heart, the blood singing in his ears with rejoice at this reunion. It was as if a parent had returned, even as he was the General's senior in years. Tullus mirrored the salute, his own helm held in similar manner; "Welcome to Thedas, General."

"I hear you've done good work, Veruin." He could have had a heart attack right then and there, as the General's hand clasped him on the shoulder; "It is well to see my faith in your competence validated."

" _Thank you_ , Sir." He swallowed, doing his best to retain composure; "I am honored."

The General nodded, glancing to Veruin's right, where Idoria Mallin had become a statue, standing at attention yet seemed to want to hide away her metallic prosthesis, as if it reminded her of the mess she'd become entangled in. Tullus made his way to her, his steps slow and measured, until he came to a stop before the comparatively tiny woman.

"Sir." She was forced to salute with the metallic arm, and Veruin was not blind to how his superior's eyes tracked it; "Welcome."

"Centurion Mallin, I'd presume from the arm?" Tullus asked, his voice the embodiment of calm neutrality.

"Yes, Sir."

"I've heard quite a few stories about you" The General continued; "Tribune Mallin, for your ceaseless endeavors in the service of the Emperor, your self-sacrifice in battle against overwhelming foes, and your admirable work in forging bonds between the Empire and the Anderfels, I promote you as such befits."

It was a good thing the General turned to regard Veruin again almost immediately. Mallin seemed about to drop where she stood, but was caught by the soldiers behind her before she actually fell. The Legate had to admit he as well was shocked, having at best expected a demotion of his subordinate. To instead have her promoted to the highest rank a field officer could achieve, left him somewhat barren for words.

It was half an hour later, when the General had finally met and greeted the various officers of the cohort, as well as the officials of Laysh and its Grey Wardens and Chantry, that he returned to where Veruin yet remained, at ease but in the same spot still.

"General."

"Legate Kratorius, how is your horsemanship?"

"I...have not ridden in a few years, General, but I'd dare say I still remember how." He would admit the question was a strange one, and he was uncertain if his answer was satisfactory; "May I ask why?"

"I've got twice the men I'm normally commanding with me, since the Emperor granted us Legio Primus, but I didn't get twice the officers. I'm scraping by as it is, but especially with cavalry commanders." He looked Veruin in the eye; "I need someone who's actually sat a horse more than once to lead the left cavalry wing. Two hundred horsemen, think you're up for it?"

He wasn't, but damn it to Oblivion anyways.

"Yes, General."

"Good." There was a smile behind that thick beard, he could tell; "I'll find you a good one, better get used to her. We march south in three days."

"We're taking Val Royeaux, General?"

"And putting it to the torch." Tullus' voice was like gravel and thunder; "It's high time Orlais was taught not to pull the dragon's tail."

* * *

 **I do like General Tullus.**

 **As a funny bit of trivia, you can thank OfficiallyDevin for that (He's a Youtuber). His playthrough of Roman Britannia in Attila really endeared me to a character that before that was just another general to throw at the enemy. That guy's playthroughs are also a brilliant example of historical fiction writing, as the stories he weaves over the campaigns are often damn touching, and can actually leave you genuinly depressed upon completion.**

 **If Devin ever stumbles upon my comments in his videos, or even this story, I hope he's happy that he inspired me to make Tullus the way he is here.**


	29. Sentimentality

**A/N: I have been notified that you'd probably like a map of Ferelden to keep track of all the strange hamlets and towns I keep mentioning in this story. To be honest I didn't actually consider it of interest to anyone but massive nerds like myself, but apparently I have been proven wrong on that account ^_^*  
**

 **So here's a map I keep using, mostly just to keep track of where my characters are in Ferelden.**

 **(Ferelden Map Detailed DeviantArt)**  
 **Because FF keeps deleting my links even when I space them apart**

 **As I do not have an account on DeviantArt, I cannot tell the artist how damn much his work as actually helped me. Which is kind of a bummer, really.**

 **But this is a pretty calm chapter, compared to the others. I know we all want constant carnage, but personally I also like to just take a step back and have the characters _not_ fighting for their lives.**

* * *

 **Sentimentality**

* * *

Society had some funny notions about dignity.

There was probably something to be said about the dignity _she_ was supposed to embody, both in her role as one of Ferelden's more senior Grey Wardens - not exactly a tall bar when one considered that the only one _newer_ would be Jowan - as well as her position in society as a woman of noble birth and marriage.

For example - and this was of course purely hypothetical and in no way something she was currently in breach of - upon entering the keep of a lesser noble, in this case Nathaniel Howe, Arl and subject to the Cousland Teyrns, a woman of her station was expected to carry herself with a certain degree of decorum and elegance.

"Jowan!"

 _Not_ \- apparently - break into a spring across the courtyard to wrap up aforementioned younger Grey Warden Jowan in a goddamn bear hug. For some reason it simply wasn't how things were supposed to be done, though not that she honestly gave a damn.

Nathaniel, at least, seemed more amused at the scene than anything else. Jowan, for his part, didn't seem to know _how_ to react to such a greeting, but damn it all, he was _her_ recruit, _her_ little Warden. She reserved the right to damn well hug him where and whenever she damn well pleased.

The fact that she had to lift him out of his wheeled chair to do so was little concern, even as he dangled from her embrace, limp feet just barely grazing the dirt. She realized with a start that she might have been a little overly enthusiastic he started wriggling in her grasp.

She lowered him back into the chair, stepping back for a moment to let him regain the breath she'd apparently squeezed from him. Right, maybe breaking his ribs wouldn't be the best way to have a reunion. It was probably hard enough that he had to wheel himself around whenever he didn't have the strength to bloodbend his own legs.

"Sorry." She couldn't quite hide away the grin, all the same, because damn it if she hadn't actually missed her little recruit. He'd started growing a beard too, as if _that_ would make him any less her little recruit. Was this how parents felt about their children always being their _children_? If so, it was pretty weird but she could at least understand the sentiment now; "Hey, Jowan. I didn't even know you were here."

"Hello Talia." The kid - and by the gods he really kind of still was, wasn't he? Crippled for life before it'd even really begun - smiled up at her, the same timid, yet self-assured smile he wore around those he trusted; "It's been a while. You've gotten bigger."

"I trust you to not comment on a lady's weight, thank you." She scoffed, though the mask cracked easily and far too quickly at the merest cock of his brow, because yeah he probably knew she was messing with him, or at least trying to. Damn that Merrill for suddenly giving his maturity a kick upwards, he was way too hard to tease right these days. She noticed he hadn't answered her question though, as did he it seemed.

"I'm the Arl's guest, for the time being." He nodded to where said Arl was catching up with his liege, though the manner was far too casual for a professional relationship. Years apart, and even Rendon Howe's treachery, seemed unable to break this bond. She smiled at that, happy to add another name to the list of people Aedan could rely on; "I was on my way to the Warden compound in Denerim after the wedding, but...he requested I stay."

Talia cocked a brow, because that wasn't at all unusual. That an Arl could request the services of a Grey Warden wasn't in and of itself unheard of, from what she understood, but Jowan was hardly the ideal Darkspawn killer these days. That an Arl would then still ask him to stay, presumably with all expenses paid for, was the unusual part. And far as she knew, Nathaniel didn't even _know_ Jowan.

"Just like that?"

"There were... _exonerating_ circumstances." The young mage seemed hesitant to explain, merely gesturing at the young Arl; "Honestly, I'm not sure how to even explain it."

"...right, so basically ask Nathaniel. Got it." She sighed and shook her head, bringing the smile back for him; "It's still good to see you, Jowan. Do you know anything about what's going on in Amaranthine?"

"Not really, I've been busying myself here." He frowned, always an amusing thing to see on his young face; "Why? What's going on?"

"There's a fleet gathering." Nathaniel appeared like a troll out of a box, and yet managed to scare absolutely no one. She offered him her curtsies, because even if she was technically both married into the Teyrnir family, as well as by extension the Royal Family, he was the native and born into Fereldan nobility. Also, she kinda wanted to be polite to him, and friendly, considering all the shit he'd been dragged through because of his father's betrayals.

"Arl Howe." She smiled as he returned the greeting, his bow lower than hers. She wondered if he was processing their different positions in society while walking towards them, calculating the amount of inches he'd need to lower himself. It'd be funny if he had, though he'd probably never admit to it; "It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Likewise, M'lady Cousland." His words were honest and genuine and somehow still made her pause for the moment it took her to remember that, oh right yeah, she was technically that now and would be greeted as such. Nathaniel knew nothing about her own House, after all; "I must admit I did not think you'd come visit without going home to Highever first..."

Talia shrugged, though somehow Nathaniel seemed uneasy. She was about to ask when Aedan walked up, his expression sour and yet bore relief. He was in a bad mood all the same, she could easily tell.

"The Chantry has declared an Exalted March, and already attacked several coastal towns, Highever included." He explained, and Nathaniel mere nodded, betraying the subject of the conversation the two had shared while she'd been re-crippling Jowan. Talia felt her guts knot up, knowing far too many people she cared about were in Highever right now. She managed to calm herself, before her breathing got out of hand, with the mantra that if something was really fucked up, Aedan wouldn't be this calm. He _wouldn't_ be this calm if anyone had died.

"Maybe we should discuss this inside." Nathaniel said, gesturing for the main doors; "I'll have the serfs set for two more, and we can catch up on what's happened."

"Thank you, Nathaniel." Her husband nodded, finally turning his attention to Jowan; "Good to see you again, Jowan. Didn't think you'd stick around a Howe, of all people."

"This one is..." Jowan paused when Nathaniel shot them both a look; "...reasonably better of a man than the last one. Also he hasn't asked me to poison anyone yet."

"I wasn't _going_ to." The young Howe looked at his liege with an expression of forced outrage; "Seriously, of all the things...Also I asked him to stay."

"You're both pretty damn tight-lipped as to why, though." Talia pointed out, already pushing Jowan's chair before her, without him having asked. She was pretty sure he was perfectly able to get around without help too, but it'd give her somewhere to put her hands, and keep her from wringing them at the thought of Highever under threat _again_.

Lunch, as it turned out, was a far more private affair than the great hall would otherwise have indicated.

A three long tables filled up the hall, placed in such a way as to form a horseshoe, with the high table at the opposite end from the doors. Only three seats had obviously been prepared in advance, though to their credit, servants were already setting plates and cups for two more. Talia eyed the table as they entered, curiosity getting the better of her. Nathaniel and Jowan were probably almost definitely two of the prepared diners, but who was the third? A visiting noble or a member of the Chantry clergy?

Meats, breads, poultry, ales and greens soon enough filled the table, and Jowan forced himself from his wheeled chair to instead take a cautious seat to the right of the center chair, leaving one between himself and what was obviously Nathaniel's, as well as a set plate to his own right. Curiously, this was the only chair completely covered in cushions, and even had stuffed linens sewn onto it, as if its user was as fragile as glass.

She noticed Nathaniel nodding to a servant, though thought little more of it until said servant, as well another, returned to the room with what could only be the final diner, and suddenly it actually made a _lot_ of sense why the chair was so ridiculously overpadded. The two servants, carefully as if they bore a newborn child, carried an elvish woman between them, her arms and legs swaddled in cloth. Dark veins, almost like the ones born from the Taint, crept up the woman's neck, ending just below her chin. Mattered, blonde hair fell around the sharp ears, framing a face that might have once been strong, defiant and proud, yet now was tired, weak and seemed most of all resigned to her situation.

The tattoos gave Talia pause, however. She'd been around Merrill enough to know what they were, though she couldn't recall the name. Dalish clans tattooed its members upon adulthood, or something, and this was damn well just that kind of tattoo. Which, in turn, begged the question, why Nathaniel Howe was hosting a Dalish elf in his keep.

She noticed Aedan seemed equally perturbed, meaning at least it wasn't some Fereldan custom she'd not yet been told of.

"Aedan, Talia, this is...Velanna, a guest of Vigil's Keep."

Nathaniel must have picked up on their reactions, or he simply knew well enough himself that hosting Dalish in the keep - with a noticeable lack of Dalish clans in Ferelden at the moment - was not exactly par for the course of nobility. The elf in question, Velanna, seemed like the mere introduction on her behalf was an annoyance, and a gesture she could have done without. A frown marred her face, though Talia realized it did not reach her eyes, a pair of dark, brooding spheres that seemed locked on her in particular.

"I was not aware you hosted Dalish women, Nathaniel." Aedan raised a brow at his old friend, even as the remark earned him a scowl from the elf. Talia cringed a little, because really, even if she herself didn't really know what to say, she could probably have come up with something better.

"You would if you'd returned to Highever, Liege." Nathaniel responded casually, before shaking his head as Velanna was placed on the cushioned chair; "...Forgive me, it is hard to know whether to handle introductions or the news from Highever first."

" _Nuvenin_...who are these people?" Velanna broke off whatever Aedan had just opened his mouth to say, and instead refocused all attention on herself, a fact she seemed to realize with some dismay. The frown on her face was, Talia had to admit, actually a little bit cute. It wasn't cute in the way Brelyna was, of course, but rather, like a petulant child suddenly caught in something they weren't supposed to, but was more annoyed at being caught than repentant of what they'd done.

She was definitely not comfortable with surprises, that much was obvious.

"Aedan Cousland and his wife Talia, Velanna." Nathaniel's voice changed completely as he addressed the elf, from stoic and somber to something approaching parental, or maybe brotherly? It was weird, and hard to figure out. Or maybe, Talia reasoned, he was just attracted to her. Honestly she wouldn't be surprised in the least if the last option was the right one; "My family is subject to Aedan's, and we've been friends since childhood."

For a long moment, it seemed like Velanna didn't quite understand that. Her frown deepened, and she looked at Talia again, as if to ascertain something in question. The woman's gaze was honestly a little intimidating, and Talia wondered if it would go away if she hid behind her cup.

"Jowan speaks of you." She finally said, and suddenly all eyes were on the young mage, looking like he wished his dinner chair had wheels to carry him away faster than he could walk. The elf's tone was softer now than before, though still reserved; "You are both his kin by oath."

Velanna, as it turned out, was not exactly the best on Nirn to start conversations, nor at holding them. Several seconds went by without another word spoken, before Aedan cleared his throat.

"You said Highever had been attacked?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, facing the Arl; "When? How?"

"...I'm not sure if you've heard before today, but Divine Beatrix has declared an Exalted March upon Ferelden. We are _excommunicated_ , Aedan. Ferelden now stands outside the protection of the Chantry, as per the decree of the Divine." Nathaniel shook his head, looking older than he was; "We're not sure when exactly the decision was made, but it'd seem to coincide with the attempt at that Imperial general's life in Denerim."

" _What_?" Talia nearly stood from her chair, though managed to keep her physical repulsion of the news to a mere scrape of wood against the stone floor; "When?"

"...a month past, roughly." Nathaniel shrugged; "His office blew up when he was about to enter, from what I heard. It coincided with the Divine's visit to Denerim's cathedral to pray for the souls lost during the Blight. There wasn't really a declaration of a March as much as it just...came. One day news just spread that Portsmouth had been razed by a fleet flying the Sunburst banner, and then it was just one town after the other. Every hamlet, village, town and port on the coast from Jader to Highever has been set ablaze, at times even looted and pillaged. I was still in talks with the city garrison commander of Amaranthine when news came in about Highever."

"Yes?" Aedan pressed

"It's hard to tell what's rumors and what's fact, but at least what's certain is that the Chantry fleet attacked Highever, and one of the Imperial officers commanded the defense with all the reserves supposed to have reinforced Gherlen's Pass. Then something happened that simply routed, or outright destroyed the ships." The young Arl frowned; "This is where it's a toss-up between rumors and fact. Some people say a mouth or a tongue or... _something_ , appeared and called down a storm on the Chantry's ships..."

"But Highever was held." Talia said, releasing air she hadn't realized she'd held; "So something _did_ destroy the ships."

"...yes, something or someone _did_ destroy the ships, and far as I can tell there's been no news of the Teyrna being harmed in the attack." Nathaniel nodded; "But I'm not yet so gullible that I'd accept the stories of old women shouting at the skies to make them pour forth a storm. It's as likely as the Maker himself intervening."

"At least it's over, then." Aedan grumbled, thoroughly miffed with the mere fact that his home had once again come under threat; "...but why would the Chantry do this? We've done nothing to warrant this kind of attack!"

"It's because of the Empire's presence, isn't it?" Talia sighed, because damn it all she'd kinda seen this coming months ago, when the simple idea of the Empire coming to Thedas was enough to make her ponder these things. The Empire's general acceptance of other religions did not mean it would roll over and abandon its own in the face of the monotheistic Chantry, which was generally _not_ particularly tolerant of other religions.

"That does seem to be the general reasoning of the people, yes." Nathaniel nodded, idly casting a glace to the elf at the table. Velanna seemed perfectly content with saying nothing, and either simply listened to their conversation or completely ignored them all. For some reason she wasn't actually feeding herself, but rather allowed Jowan to do so, which wasn't at all a strange sight; "I don't yet know a lot of your people, I'm afraid, but what I've seen so far would not usually warrant this degree of hostility."

"You are of the people from across the seas?" Velanna spoke up suddenly, turning Talia's attention to her. Again, those sharp, dark orbs bore into hers, as if she was herself unaware of just how intense a gaze it was; "I thought you would not look so alike the _sh_ \- the humans of these lands, yet I can barely tell there is a difference at all. I sense no shred of Fade around you, even as Jowan claimed you a mage?"

" _Ah_..." Right, because how exactly was she even supposed to start answering that, and where to even start? "Jowan's right, I am a mage, but mages from across the sea don't need the Fade to cast spells...I'm a bit curious, but how come you're here? Far's I know the Dalish clans go north this time of year?"

Velanna frowned at that, her eyes suddenly no longer on Talia but on the table before her, shoulders hunched. Jowan stopped trying to feed her, instead gaining something damn near his old "kicked puppy" expression, only now it seemed he was trying to figure out whether it was his own or Velanna's.

"It's...not a pleasant story, Talia." He sighed, when it became clear the elf wasn't willing to speak of it; "Velanna's clan was wiped out by Darkspawn a few months back. Far as we're aware, she's the sole survivor."

"...oh fuck me." Right, because she just _had_ to ask, didn't she? Velanna had grown completely still, as had Nathaniel and Aedan in their seats, the latter now watching the elf with wide eyes, before turning to his friend with a look of similar disbelief; "...when?"

"Little more than a month ago, actually." Nathaniel explained, drawing her eyes; "Two Templars from Kinloch brought her in, though to Jowan's credit she was in a considerably worse state than now."

"...I thought the Imperial soldiers patrolled for Darkspawn?" Aedan said. Velanna winced at the question, though she remained silent. Talia's desire to know why was overruled by the simple fact that, apparently, Ferelden actually fucking needed them again.

"...They did, until this whole mess with Orlais started." The Arl sighed; "Now there's no soldiers on the roads or in the countryside, and the Darkspawn are suddenly reappearing, acting as if guided. They hit farmhouses and hamlets, torching and killing before disappearing as quickly as they came. I don't have enough house troops to protect everywhere, and the men I send to reported attacks arrive to find only corpses and smoking ruins."

" _Fuuuuck..._ " Talia lowered her face into her hands, drawing out the curse. Damn it all, what a way to fuck with her mood.

"I suppose Denerim has no reinforcements to send." Her husband asked, though the tone of his voice made it clear he knew the answer to that already; "Damn it all..."

"The situation _is_ quite a mess..." Nathaniel could only agree with the sentiment, it seemed; "But, you did not know of this. Tell me friends, why have you come to Amaranthine?"

Aedan looked at her now, and she could tell he was trying to convey with eyes alone that she knew _damn well_ that this was her little trip to explain. While it _was_ to his credit that he'd not really complained too much about basically being in the dark when it came to _why_ they were going to Amaranthine, _she_ didn't really know either. Which meant it was still a damned dirty move on his part to simply throw her at Nathaniel and step back like this.

Oh, she'd get him for it later, alright.

"...it's a little complicated." She started, stopping herself before going on, because really, _what_ could she actually say beyond ' _this old woman told us to go to Amaranthine because reasons'_? She needed something better, but came up damnably _blank_ ; "...but, we're basically just taking a detour to check up on the state of things, considering Amaranthine is subject to Highever."

She could tell Aedan wanted to slap himself in the face, but somehow resisted the urge. Jowan seemed mostly just amused, definitely capable of telling her bullshit apart, but remained quiet.

"Sensible..." Nathaniel nodded, scratching at his chin; "Beyond the Darkspawn raids, things have been quiet. There'll probably be more resources to deal with _that_ problem now that the approaching fleets are dealt with."

"Nothing unusual, then?" she prodded, feeling emboldened by the fact that she'd actually _managed_ to bullshit Nathaniel. In hindsight maybe she should feel a bit more ashamed at that, actually; "We'd heard people on the roads speak of a grey-skinned woman in Amaranthine. We might know her, but it could just as well be rumors."

The Arl hummed, a finger curled before his lips, as he seemed to ponder her words.

"Well, rumors they are not." He mused; "I've met with Serah Maryon, if she is of whom you speak. She's been a great help in administering aid to the refugees from Denerim, as well as in the general hospices of the city."

So it _was_ Brelyna, alright, and at least it didn't sound like she'd started killing anyone. Talia wasn't sure which was the greater relief, and felt only a little shame at that realization.

"That's a relief." Aedan seemed to have shared her thoughts on the matter.

"Say," Nathaniel said; "Amaranthine's a fair ways off, and there'll be few inns on the road better than what I could offer. Will you not stay the night? I'd be happier to see you off to a fresh day, rather than a setting sun."

* * *

" _What now, then Kiir?"_

Hakkon's voice was something that had at this point become a constant in her life. Her very existence used the old dragon as an anchor, a tether for her sanity to hold on to and grasp for dear life. He was, in a way, a very sentimental thing indeed.

Alma wasn't exactly given to a lot of that, of _sentimentality_.

In her life, sentimentality usually only served to set you up for a lot of grief down the line, because one way or another she'd always have to part with the ones she cared for. And there was always death involved too, which never really served to make the departures that much more joyful.

She'd lost more people than any one person ever really should, and she knew it'd taken its toll on her state of being, ergo the fact that she'd probably come down with a few kinds of stress way, way back. She'd never really had the time to stop and check when exactly on that long line on disasters, grief and horrors she'd dropped the last vestiges of actual humanity.

She'd had a different name once too, though only the mask yet remembered, and bothered to remind her. Hakkon, too, knew of course, but never strayed from his ' _Kiir'_ , which really did have a way of becoming pretty endearing over the years. She'd had kin of her own once, too. There were friends, loved ones, even a child of her own body.

All of that was gone, now. Lost to the darkness of time. Was this what Flemeth felt like, she wondered, when the old crone spent her days in that damned swamp of hers, playing at house with a long line of daughters that never saw their twentieth nameday?

Still, even a monster like Flemeth could probably admire the sunset, from time to time. Seated on one of the countess mountainsides of Highever's countryside, Alma had as ideal a view of the sunset as one could have asked the gods themselves for. The warm air blew softly across her face, playing with the thin, grey strands that had once held such a beautifully, fiery red color that men had near snapped their necks to gaze upon it.

Soon, it would all end anyway. Life would end as it was known, and fire would rain from the skies in an unending torrent. The dead would walk again and all bonds would break. Every Circle would run awash with the blood of the innocents, and every man, woman or child cursed with magic within the realm of Thedas would become hunted prey for zealots and fanatics.

No matter how much she worked, no matter what she did, who she killed, who she saved, some things never changed. The sun would always rise, the dead would always walk, the innocents would always pay for crimes not their own.

The sunset was, just like the world, objectively speaking, beautiful.

But she felt nothing, at seeing it.

It was just another go at the old bitch fate, just another try and get things right.

It was just another sunset.

Like the countless, tens and thousands of others.

"It's time to keep moving..." she sighed, standing from the grassy cliffside. Down below, deep below, she could see the lights of villages and hamlets, like torch bugs crawling in the dirt; "...there's about to be a bonfire in Amaranthine."

But even if nothing ever seemed to change, no matter what the fuck she did...

...she was still going to keep trying, because not trying would be even worse than failing.

Okay, maybe she was a little sentimental.


	30. Someone else's Kingdom for a Horse

**Someone Else's Kingdom for a Horse**

* * *

Veruin had always liked horses.

A strange notion for a man such as he then, when one considered he'd chosen the only amphibious Legion in the Empire for his service, rather than one of the ground-based Legions where cavalry duty might have been an option.

All the same, he was starting to think this new assignment wasn't just because the General needed a capable officer in charge.

The signs really were there almost from the start, when he realized no stable hand had been assigned to assist him with the saddling and grooming of his new mount. The other officers, including those beneath him in ranks, all had such advantages, and he understood clearly enough that the absence of one of his own was not an accident.

The horse itself, a chestnut gelding more than ten years of age, was the next sign, and really the only one he needed to understand that, much as the General approved of the Sixth Cohort's _results_ , he did not necessarily approve of the methods Veruin had employed to get here. Since Laysh was better off than ever before, and there'd been little to no hostilities between his men and the locals, the issue had to rest with Hossberg, and quite possibly the fact that Centurion, no, Tribune Mallin's revelation of borderline divinity in the eyes of the Anders, might just be what had started off the Chantry's crusade against the Legion in Ferelden.

So, in short, General Tullus approved of his results, but disproved of the events they seemed to have set in motion.

Still, as far as disciplinary examples went, this was nowhere near what he had feared upon the General's arrival. Not only was Mallin spared execution for cavorting with Daedric entities, but she was promoted and in front of the entire Cohort to boot. The men had already started spreading tales of her exploits to their comrades yet fresh off the boats, and as rumors and tales went, they seemed exaggerated each time he heard of them again.

What remained the same, however, was the reverence she was met with almost wherever she went in the town, and beyond. The locals, understandably, nurtured both great gratitude towards her as the commanding officer when they'd come under attack, but even more as the apparent return of their prophet.

He would be lying, had he claimed not to understand them. After what he'd seen in Hossberg, no matter how much he knew it _had_ to merely be the work of the Daedric Prince Meridia, he could not shake the sensation of awe, nor the buckling of his knees when he'd heard the song, brought forth by a voice too divine for human lips.

"Easy there..." he muttered as he approached the small enclosure. Most of the horses were kept beyond the town walls, simply for the lack of anything resembling a stable within them. The gelding assigned to him had at first been unnamed, though something within him - maybe it was newfound spirituality or simple sentimentality - was aghast at the notion that his mount should be without a name. As such he'd bestowed it upon the horse himself, the name 'Hannibal' seeming to fit well a horse meant to tread the soil of a new and foreign world. He clicked his tongue, luring the gelding to him as well as with the ripened, wrinkly apple in his open palm.

Even horses appreciated simple kindness.

He was aware of the smaller horse pens, as well. The animals held within were not of the breed nor stock one would sit upon when mounting a charge, certainly.

They were northern stock, the hardy, strong and thick-legged breeds of Skyrim. When the Legion moved, so did its artillery, of course, and these were the beasts used to haul the massive ballistae and the onagers of the Emperor's forces when on the march, men alone only moving them around when the finer adjustments were made upon the field of battle.

And speaking of artillery, General Tullus had brought some strange pieces with him. Veruin had frowned upon seeing them, at first. Strange tubular constructs, like the cannons on a ship but so much smaller that they might just bounce from the hull of a warship rather than shatter it. The largest one was barely half the diameter of a shipboard cannon, though longer and much more reinforced with iron bands around its girth.

It bore the strange name 'Culverin', though the General had been unwilling or unable to explain what it meant. Apparently the Emperor wanted it, and the other pieces brought along, tested upon the field of battle in a place where no elven eyes could see them. At least, no eyes loyal to the Thalmor.

Veruin had to admit, he was less than enthusiastic about dragging such things into battle. Cannons took longer to reload than a ballistae, and could as well explode in the midst of the crews handling them. Ballistae and onagers lacked such perils to the crews, and you _knew_ what you were dealing with. They might be well suited for breaking down castle walls, however.

He was a bit more curious about the _fulminatae_ , that the General had brought along. He'd not heard of their creation before literally yesterday, but at the same time the concept was easily enough understood. They seemed like the bastardized merge of a cannon and a crossbow, which was really all he needed to know to understand their workings, which were themselves surprisingly simple.

Much like a cannon, they were loaded from the front with black powder, before a ball of lead or iron was shoved down the tube. A sprinkle of powder was needed at the rear as well, where a piece of flint would strike steel to bring out the spark to ignite the mix, and blow forth the ball with tremendous power.

Yes, he could definitely see the potential behind such handheld cannons.

* * *

"I thought Denerim was supposed to have the highest walls in all of Ferelden." Talia remarked as they drew closer to the city.

There were snickers and chuckles from their escort, half of what Nathaniel had available of his household troops had been sent with them for safety, as well as he had insisted they visit with a newly settled armorer in the city. Aedan as well seemed amused, though far better at hiding it than the men with them.

"Denerim's walls _are_ taller, because they're mostly situated on preexisting ramparts or the cliffs." He explained, even as the towering battlements blocked out the late midday sun. Each day seemed hotter than the last already, and she would admit to be sweating underneath the cloak and thick clothes she'd worn since they'd set out from Highever more than a month ago. They'd both long-since packed their furs into the saddlebags, but even then it was pretty damn warm, and riding around trying to get her growing belly to fit on the saddle _wasn't_ as easy as she hoped she made it seem; "Amaranthine's were expanded by the Howe's over the past decades. The docks were expanded to accommodate larger ships, and the walls were made higher and thicker. Nathaniel said he's thinking of adding a moat, or a perimeter wall on top of it."

"Is it a Fereldan thing?" she cocked her head and watched her husband; "To turn your cities into fortresses?"

"Kinda?" he shrugged; "We're not exactly swimming in cities, gotta make sure the ones we have aren't sacked by the next best Avaar warband. Or Chasind. Or Orlesians, or the Darkspawn, or Qunari..."

"Right, right, got it, the neighbors _suck_." She sighed, leaning a little back in the saddle. The city now loomed almost overhead, and on both sides seemed to have grown an entire village in its own right, probably those who could not find the space - or money - to live within the walls. It wasn't even like it was a slum, as much as it seemed simply to be surprisingly overcrowded; "There's a lot of people out...think they're from the sacked villages?"

"It's definitely possible." Aedan nodded. People started pointing at them, making her a little more aware of the fact that, yes, not being covered in mud, and being mounted, probably did its part to betray them as nobles. And considering the attention now being leveled at them from every pair of eyes, there probably wasn't a whole lot more going on.

The more she watched them, however, the more she realized most of the attention was on _her_ , rather than Aedan or the rest of their little entourage. And it wasn't just the casual bit of attention, no, it was overwhelming curiosity and people outright _pushing_ past one another to get past, and closer to them.

"...are we expected or something?" Aedan muttered, frowning as he took in their apparent audience. They nearly lined the street now, all the way from the gates proper, and seemed to merge behind them like some sort of human enclosure.

She rode a little closer to him, and behind them the escorts closed up. No one seemed blind to how many people now pressed into the streets, muttering and bickering amongst themselves, yet not one pair of eyes seemed willing to leave her person for more than the moment it'd take to glance at the escort. She glanced at herself and Aedan in turn, trying to figure out if they somehow stood out, beyond simply being nobility. They both _did_ wear the sigils of House Cousland, as were their horses branded with them, but was that really enough?

The crowd followed them until they reached the gates, then somehow seemed content with staying put, an eager chorus of whispers and mutterings rippling through the masses. Talia was a little unnerved, and realized a hand had gone to her belly without her consciously placing it there. She didn't mind crowds, but damned if she didn't want to know _why_ they gathered.

This was just weird, and their escorts seemed of the same mind. She noticed more than a few of them had their hands on the pommels of their swords.

Within the gates, Amaranthine was a city more like what she'd recognize from the Empire than anything Fereldan. While yes, there was definitely Fereldan architecture everywhere she'd turn her eyes, the way the streets were ordered and paved, and the way every house and building seemed planned in advance. There was a sense of order to the city, even when its populace was very much in every way as Fereldan as that of Denerim, Highever or Redcliffe.

Most of the city seemed centered around several towering fortresses, their streets running squares around them. They were humbling in sizes, massive blocks of granite or marble formed walls that seemed near-impervious to anything but the most violent magic. She'd thought Denerim a fortress simply for her walls and gate, but Amaranthine put the capital to shame, with fortifications within the city dwarfing all but Fort Drakon itself.

She wasn't blind to the amount of refugees though. Hundreds, if not thousands who seemed as if they did not belong, and didn't really know what the hell to do with themselves in a city they clearly hadn't yet grown used to. They were from Denerim too, most of them, probably. Half the city had been destroyed, and she had no real clue as to how far the Legion had come with reconstruction before Gaspard had marched on the border, bringing the soldier's work to a halt.

Talia frowned, wrinkling her nose at a smell in the air. It was disease, sickness and filth. She could smell it, far too much for her liking, and could see in the corners and the alleyways where huddled figures were swaddled in cloth and cloaks, rocking back and forth or simply remaining still. Nathaniel had said they were trying to help the refugees, but it seemed there was more than _could_ be helped.

Brelyna was somewhere in this throng of humanity, probably doing her damnest to defy Talia's pessimism.

* * *

Phillipe had not expected to see Illia again.

For sure, he had nurtured the hope of a rendezvous with the lithe, elven mage, but he'd not dared truly believe it would ever come to pass. For all he knew, their night together was to have been the last time he ever saw her, a notion that had caused him no small amount of regret.

Elf or human, it was a rare thing indeed to come across so entrancing a creature as her. There had been a certain _grace_ to her movements, so far removed from the rutting of humans, that it had left him without much mind of his own, much less breath.

For these reasons, or perhaps in spite of them, he was unprepared to find her in the Emperor's tent when he himself arrived. For himself, he was somewhat understanding of why he'd been summoned. He could pull off a believable Fereldan accent, and they had remained unmoving on the banks of the Dane for the last day, their Emperor seemingly unwilling to cross it just yet.

Gaspard de Chalons, the Emperor he had sworn his sword and life to, was himself present in the tent when he arrived. Phillipe took a knee on the spot, only standing when the man before him bid him to. Illia remained unmoving, her sharp blue eyes fixated on the Emperor, and the fiercely red hair tucked into a bun behind her head. She was dressed not as a mage, but in the attire of a peasant girl, of all things.

All the same, the honor of being called to the Emperor's presence by far outshone his curiosity and excitement at seeing the elven woman again. That the Emperor had asked for him, there could be no greater chance at proving his worth, and the worth of his family in the eyes of those born into the ranks of the Chevaliers.

Whatever his Liege, Lord and Master would ask of him, Phillipe already knew in the depths of his heart that he would see it done, or die in the attempt. His _code de Chevalier_ , and his personal honor, would have nothing less.

"Phillipe de Lydes?" he only dared a nod at the Emperor's request for confirmation; "Do you know the reason for your presence here in my tent?"

"I do not, Excellence."

"What of you, Serah?" the Emperor turned to Illia, and Phillipe could swear she puffed her chest out with poorly concealed pride; "Do you know why I have called you here?"

"You seek people who could pass for Fereldans, Excellence." Her answer came with such haste that the man she spoke to had only barely finished the last of his own. When next she spoke, Phillipe would confess he was astounded at the altered voice; "I am the only mage of the Circle who can take on such accents."

"Indeed." The Emperor nodded, a small smirk on his royal face. It was better than to see him weary, and Phillipe swore that he would endeavor to bring his liege more of such pleasures. Emperors remembered fondly those who made their problems cease, whatever the methods; "I have information that Fereldan forces yet remain in sizable numbers across the river. I need people who can enter that territory, and scout out the route from here to Denerim."

"Hence that we should pass for locals." The elf nodded, and the Emperor smiled again, just barely visible beneath his thick moustache.

"Yes." A small box rested upon the table in the center of the tent, Phillipe realized with a start. The Emperor opened its lid and withdrew a small, ornately carved necklace with a round, glass-clear stone in its center. For all purposes it appeared more a glass bead than anything an Emperor would be caught in possession of; "You will travel under a guise of your own design, and submit daily reports to me, as well as on anything that catches your immediate attention. Illia, as a mage of the White Spire, are you familiar with this gemstone?"

"A communications crystal." Phillipe's brows rose a notch at the term, not one he as a Chevalier had come across before; "It allows mages to send messages across unlimited distances, with barely a moment of delay."

"Very good." The Emperor nodded, handing Illia the necklace; "It will be left up to you _when_ to make contact, only that it a report must have been made by the end of the day." Phillipe straightened his stance when his Liege turned his attention back upon him; "Ser Phillipe, as the sole of my Chevaliers who can pass for a Fereldan, I would task you with the protection of this woman. Can I entrust this to you, even though such a task falls beneath the worth of the Hero of Kincaster?"

Phillipe could have sworn a smirk played at the end of those words, and he himself knew the reason too. Even spitted upon a lance, the monster in the form of an old woman had in the end retained the power to break herself from the thick, iron bars of an enchanted cage. To merely stick her with a spear, in hindsight, now seemed a hopelessly naïve attempt at bringing down such a foe.

"Upon my honor, my Emperor." He bowed deeply, palm over his heart; "I will guard her with my life."

"That is well to hear, Ser Phillipe. Your dedication does your family honor, though..." A frown appeared on the Emperor's face; "...I must confess I do not know of your House."

"...we do not yet have much land, Excellence." Phillipe admitted, his head still bowed, though now with a shred of shame as well, that he must admit such in present company; "It was my hope, earnestly, that through valor and chivalrous endeavor I could enhance the standing of my House."

"An admirable goal, if any, and an honest mind to admit to such. Lift your head, Chevalier, I would not have you so humbled for your earnest tongue." Through the haze of relief and rejoice at his master's words, Phillipe thought he noticed Illia coughing at the mention of his tongue. It would have been of great amusement, were he right; "A wagon and a mule has been made ready for you, requisitioned from the last village we passed. It is Fereldan, and so is the mule and the clothes within."

Beyond the entrance to the tent, minutes later when their master had dismissed them, Phillipe found himself weathering the somewhat uncomfortable silence it was to encounter ones rendezvous once more, and there was uncertainty within him as to how to handle this unexpected, though not indeed unwanted, reunion.

It was ridiculous, in truth, that he, a man grown and a Chevalier, would succumb to such base trepidation.

Illia coughed where she stood, a few feet removed with her posture straight, and her eyes forward, rather than upon him. Last he'd seen her dressed it had been robes of the Circle, if clearly not the sort worn in the White Spire's libraries.

"Regardless of what happened that night, I believe we can both undertake this task with necessary professionalism." She stated, keeping her eyes yet ahead. Phillipe got the strange sensation that, maybe, she found it hard to face him; "I also hope you can find it acceptable to serve under an elf such as I, much as I am aware such is uncommon amongst your ranks."

"...I found it easy enough to serve underneath you last we met." He allowed himself a grin at the reddening of her cheeks. Ah, Circle mages. For all their destructive capabilities and the hardships they faced, in their own ways they were so very naïve, and sometimes even innocent; "Have no worries, Serah. The Emperor requires this of us, and so I will serve, without complaint."

"Even if such a task might leave you bereft of the glory of battle?" finally she glanced at him, sharp, blue eyes watching him as had he attempted to seduce her. In its own right not an unappealing prospect, especially as he now knew what she was like in such circumstances. He could only nod, and offer a shrug, to which she snorted with what seemed almost like amusement; "Maker, you must be the _strangest_ Chevalier I've ever met."

"Ah, but we did more than merely _meet_." He chuckled, the tense atmosphere now entirely gone, levity having taken its place. The sputterings and coughs of the diminutive woman did not make it any less amusing, nor did the reddening of her face or that she so averted her eyes; "Apologies, Serah. I shall not mention it again."

"Good." She said, much too quickly for it to be much more than an instinctual response, her eyes locked on what had to be a very interesting tree, if the intensity with which she stared at it was any indication; "Good. That's good. Now let's get onwards, and we should have a guise prepared before we encounter the locals."

Phillipe allowed her to go first. It was less of a chivalrous act, and more of the chance to watch her leave, much as he very well knew it not to be the proper conduct of a Chevalier when in the company of equals. Or, in this case, at least very close to equals. He'd actually resigned himself to proper professionalism, _truly_ , when Illia turned her head just enough that he could see a small, almost invisible smirk upon her lips;

"All the same, I should very much like an encore of last we met, should time allow for such."

Perhaps this would be an enjoyable task after all.

* * *

 **90% of the times my chapters are delayed, it's not so much a writer's block as my simple inability to decide what to put first, and then I stress myself out and can't write a damn thing for days.**

 **Also I tend to delete entire segments of chapters if I realize they mess with the flow of the story as a whole. Had a segment in this one I ended up shelfing for the foreseeable future, simply because it'd mess with the rest of the plot.**

 **All the same, I hope you enjoyed this one. We're also closing in on the start of the Kirkwall Arc, which is a tricky one to decide because when do you even start something like that?**


	31. Fog of War

**Fog of War**

 **or**

 **Brelyna becomes a Slaver**

* * *

Orlais, it seemed, was in no particular hurry.

Cauthrien removed the spyglass from her eye, a sigh escaping her as yet again, there was no sign at all of an impending attack. The smoking wreckages of the armored galleries yet remained where they'd been abandoned, and somehow there mere sight of them, only fifty meters from the trenches, and far too close to the wall, unsettled her even now.

General Belisarius had thought it possible to grind down thousands of Orlesians in this Pass, with nary a casualty of their own. And, so far they'd suffered no casualties, but at the same time it was clear that Orlais did not intend to do so either, not after that first baptism of fire.

The wall itself was no less densely populated then before, even as they'd taken hundreds of soldiers to dig trenches and fortify their rear approach. The men previously occupying the trenches she could see now before them, supposed to halt Chevaliers, were now empty and unused. Gaspard was in Ferelden now, and his forces were on their way here. It would only be a matter of time before they were attacked from two sides, and if Orlais was smart about it, it'd be simultaneous.

Legate Khaok had gone to supervise the fortifications, and she'd not be a bit surprised if he ended up building another wall to their rear, and wall them in like Tevinters had done once against the Avaar warlord Vercingetorix, so many ages ago that it was a miracle such battles were even yet remembered. Still, this left her in command of the Pass, without the second-in-command she'd honestly come to rely upon more than mayhaps she ought.

Of course, she was well able to command this on her own. She'd commanded the defenses of Ostagar numerous times against the Darkspawn, whilst Loghain and King Cailan routed them on the field. Then again, that was the Darkspawn, barely sentient creatures that relied on numbers alone to overcome and overwhelm their victims.

This was Orlais, an army of professional soldiers and competent generals and tacticians, ultimately commanded by one of the most brilliant military minds Thedas had seen since Emperor Drakorious. Gaspard De Chalons, the bastard of a brilliant madman, who'd somehow managed to scrounge up such forces in such a short time after having fought a civil war that'd torn his nation apart.

There was a part of her that couldn't - no matter how much she wanted it - quite help but admire that kind of drive. As a fellow general, Gaspard De Chalons was no doubt a formidable opponent, and he had access to forces that far surpassed her own. The soldiers of Orlais were mostly levies, yes, but with a core of professional soldiers larger than what the Fereldan Royal Army could usually boast in total numbers, both levies and not.

King Cailan, much as she did not approve of besmirching his name in death, had been far too lenient when it came to the state of the armed forces. They still had little better training and equipment than they'd had during the Rebellion, and only the household troops of the nobles had actually seen their equipment follow the trends of their neighbouring countries, where platemail would replace scales and splint. The Empire had done its best to force through reforms of their gear, but she'd known from the start it was a race they couldn't win.

There was noise in the distance now, no doubt another of Gaspard's tricks or siege machines. The ones they'd just barely managed to take out were bad enough, and she did not wish to be upon the walls if the Orlesians were able to rebuild their ballistae, those massive warbows capable of flinging spears further and faster than even a trebuchet could a rock.

Her own men milled about on the wall, and in the woodlands on both sides of the Pass. They were all aware _something_ was going on, but none knew more than her, she suspected.

"What the hells are they up to now..." she muttered to herself, keeping her own ignorance concealed from the men. Legate Khaok was not here now, and his booming voice would be of no help this time around.

Near her, so near that she could catch broken words and the occasional sentence, one of the Legionaries stood with a hand clutched around the amulets they all wore, though many wore pieces that varied in design. It was also the only sign they ever allowed to slip that even through the steel-grit of the Legion, they were people behind it all, and desired to live just as much as any other. He was one of the Nords, she realized, the breed of people from the colder regions of the Empire, stouter and stronger, and hardier in physique than most.

" _...Arkay, Kynareth, Shor, Dibella, Talos..."_ She knew none of the names, but understood them easily enough to be the names of the Empire's gods. A faint glow emanated from between the soldier's fingers as he prayed; "... _my family. Let Tobias grow up strong and..."_

It was a personal prayer, and she somehow felt a little rude for even listening in as much as she did. A hand went to her own neck out of instinct, finding it devoid of the Sunburst pendant she'd always carried before. Cauthrien repressed a sigh, realizing the habit for what it was. She'd discarded it upon news of the Exalted March, and to even attempt finding it again would be akin to handing the Chantry her integrity.

A fog started creeping over the Pass.

Cauthrien, at first, attributed it merely to the season, and the temperatures and the cold. Then, she realized with a start that it'd been damn warm near the whole week so far. Fog wasn't supposed to just appear like this, then.

"Stations men, stations!"

She could not match Khaok's voice, but at least the Centurions made sure the order ran the lines, as well as soon enough making it to the people in the woods. Same as when Gaspard's rolling roofs had appeared, the engineers quickly made to man their war machines, notching bowstrings and rolling into place the boulders for the trebuchets.

The fog, now, had already within mere minutes thickened to such a degree that she could barely even see the trenches. It was like the clouds themselves had dropped down, and formed a solid basin of white, through which only the tops of the galleries protruded.

A centurion was nearby, and she grasped his shoulder. The man was older than her, it seemed, or at least far more weathered.

"Get the mages to disperse this fog, I'll not have Orlais walking in where we cannot see them."

"General." The man nodded, taking off at a brisk pace that she would have liked to be a run. But, apparently Centurions were not allowed to run in sight of their men, unless it was to run behind the backs of their lines in open combat, prodding and commanding.

All the same, soon enough a vortex of fire swirled through the sunken clouds. Where it touched, the fog caught ablaze and dispersed, only then to reform the moment the vortex had passed. Similar storms of magic joined, and ripped and tore at the fog with a ferocity that might as well have been directed at demons. It was clear, even after a full minute of constant blizzards and infernal storms, that the fog would not disperse by any means she seemed to command. Not even when powerful gales of wind blasted through the fog would it dissipate, simply flowing back as if a hand had moved through water. Damn it all.

"Cease casting!"

"Cease!" the shouts echoed down the wall; "Cease! Cease casting!"

There was little she could do, Cauthrien realized, but wait for the Orlesians to make their move. She could, of course, simply shoot spells and arrows into the fog, but for all she knew it was for just such a purpose that the damn thing was called in anyway, so as to make her forces waste their ammunition, and tire out their mages.

It'd seem Gaspard had brought along the White Spire's enchanters, much as she'd quietly hoped he'd have taken them up north. This was effectively the very real version of what people called the 'fog of war', and the realization would have made her snort with wry amusement, were she not in the midst of it. She turned to the closest of the Centurions, one of the Nords who seemed to have stuck to her side since Khaok departed for the rear.

"...lay down runes and wards along the wall's foundations, and do the same for the trenches, and as far out as the mages can cast without exposing themselves to enemies in the fog, and have them cast whatever conjured creatures you have that can patrol the fog. And prepare pitch, tar and oil. If we become aware of Orlesians in the fog, I want them burned where they crawl." She gave the command with a tired voice; "Even if we can't see Orlais coming, I'll not have them sneak up on us with so contemptuous ease. And get word to the people on the flanks, double night-watch, confiscate all the strong ale and give orders that the men sleep in armor."

The Centurion, whether it was to his credit or not, seemed to want to protest the last one. Likely he was well aware of how hard it was to even fall asleep in armor, not to mention the things it could do to the body over longer periods. But he held his tongue, saluted and took off, leaving Cauthrien to her own thoughts once more.

She stared into the fog, bidding her eyes to pierce the unnatural layer of clouds. As the hours went by, and little happened but the brief appearances of softly glowing runes underneath the white cover, she resigned herself to her own inability to gaze through it. Gaspard would have his fog of war, it seemed, but she'd be damned if he was going to get much use out of it.

* * *

If her reunion with Jowan had been somewhat lacking in personal dignity, her reaction to spotting Brelyna, was nothing short of utterly devoid of it.

It didn't really matter that she had to step through and over and between rows upon rows of diseased, sick and injured - and otherwise incapacitated - people, nor did it matter that Brelyna was covered from her knees to her chin in a heavy, grey apron that might once have been white, or that only her eyes and ears showed behind a cloth-mask, and that her entire front was covered in all kinds of dried-up bodily liquids.

Talia hugged her all the same.

Brelyna squealed when she was lifted from the floor, though whether it was simple surprise or joy was hard to tell through the mask. The people around them, one in an attire very much like the one the Dunmeri girl wore, stared in complete disbelief at the scene. Talia ignored him, because in her own defense she'd at least checked Brelyna wasn't in the middle of healing someone before she'd robbed her off the floor. She smelled damn familiar too, and not just in the good way. There was a general stench in the air, and she felt like she should have known what it was.

The masked man, or, well, probably doctor, considering the environment, approached her, a look in his eyes she couldn't read.

"...hey, hmm, Serah, would you kindly leave the room?" it was not exactly the harsh language she'd somewhat expected, but still, to outright throw her out seemed more than a little excessive. Also, yes, she _did_ realize people who didn't work here probably weren't appreciated. The voice made him sound almost as if he was amused, however; "We're really not open to the public just...waltzin' in here like that."

"It's fine, Anders." Brelyna giggled upon being allowed to use her feet again. Talia stepped back, just enough to let her friend and borderline sister - she wasn't sure if the adoption had actually gone through, though she should probably have asked her mom _before_ aforementioned returned to Tamriel - adjust her clothes, and make sure nothing was out of order; "Talia's a dear friend of mine, and as close as you'll get to immune."

"Oh...well, that's nice then, and all, but...we're really, like, really not a place you just walk in on." The doctor sighed, pinching his brows; "I'm actually fairly sure we put up signs on the door, and the door before that one, and the street entrance."

"I was recommended to seek out Brelyna by your Arl, Ser." Talia replied, because yeah, she kinda actually had been. Technically Nathaniel hadn't said she could barge into what was apparently a makeshift hospital for a surprising amount of people with surprisingly similar symptoms to each other, but he hadn't said she _couldn't_ either, and he _had_ suggested they find Brelyna. So, there, she had an alibi.

"The Arl?" the doctor - Anders - frowned, and somehow she thought he seemed familiar. Then again, mousy blonde hair and a gangly body seemed damn near a trademark of the Fereldans. He seemed to give her a once-over, and she winced a little when she realized how hard the human fluids would probably be to get out of her clothes. She pitied the servants at Highever - or herself, if Eleanor would make her clean them herself as a lesson on not to tightly embrace filthy people; "Why'd the _Arl_ send...wait, you two are friends?"

The last question was directed at her and Brelyna, less so than it might have been with her and Nathaniel.

"A bit more than that, but yeah." Talia nodded.

"That'd make you one of the Grey Wardens then, wouldn't it?" the doctor's eyes widened, just a little. Talia barely had the time to nod before he went on; "Well it's about damn time you showed up. Darkspawn's about in the countryside and we can't even check the refugees flocking to Amaranthine from the villages."

"Check them?" Aedan had finally caught up, and had seemed far more cautious about getting across the room where the floor was literally sick people.

"For the taint, genius." The man threw out his arms; "What'd you think happens when a crap-ton of country-bumpkins get exposed to the Darkspawn? If they don't get the stabby-stabby treatment, there's a damn good chance they've contracted something."

Talia gave the sick and the diseased and the injured another glance. So, that'd be why it smelled so damn familiar in here then. The next thought entering her mind was, honestly speaking, a mild state of alarm that they'd be gathering so many victims of the Taint in the middle of the second-largest city in Ferelden, and not have armed guards ready to go " _Sten smash_ " if someone turned into a ghoul.

"We're burning the bodies, and I've made sure to isolate the rooms we use the best I could, so as to contain the taint." Brelyna explained; "I've made glyphs and wards that purify the air going both in and out of the building as a whole."

"Aren't you at risk though?" Aedan asked the question Talia realized she was unwilling to. Brelyna shrugged, tapping a finger on one of a dozen small vials secured to her hip with a bandolier of sorts. Red, clear liquids flushed around within.

"I've found adequate substitutes for the ingredients to cure disease. We're taking regular dosages, and so far it's worked well enough." Talia could have kissed her out of pride alone, because damn if that in itself wasn't a step in the right direction. A frown then settled on Brelyna's cute brows; "We're treating the sick with it as well, but we're running out of stock."

"What do you need?" Talia realized her voice might be a little more pitched than before, but threw the notion to the winds, concern for her friend coming first; "We're not staying in the city too long, we could go find what you need."

"Thank you, Talia." She was sure there was a smile underneath the mask, even if it was probably a tired one; "Luckily, the ingredients aren't that rare, actually. I've used powdered crab-shells and red kelp until now. The crab shells can be found, well, pretty much everywhere on the docks, but I kind of bought them from the fishermen for lunch too."

"They were good." Ander noted.

"Red kelp's not _inside_ Amaranthine, but I've tried paying people to gather it along the Storm coast. Apparently it grows on pretty deep water and doesn't really get washed ashore except for there." Brelyna sighed; "But no one accepts Septims here, and the mayor would rather we killed the tainted and burned them immediately, instead of trying to cure them."

"There's two of you though, aren't there?" Aedan frowned; "One could stay here, the other could go gather the kelp?"

Anders coughed awkwardly.

"What?"

"Anders...isn't exactly fit for leaving the building." Brelyna muttered, head dipped so low her chin was digging into the top of her apron; "...it's a little complicated."

"Emphasis on the complicated part, I'll wager..." Aedan sighed; "You don't _look_ tainted."

"Wow, _thanks_." The blonde drawled before relenting with a sigh; "She's not wrong, it's...best I'm not seen outside the building. Like, at all."

"What, are you a criminal?" Talia only asked the question in jest - because it was _Brelyna_ , of all people. She'd probably have killed him if he was - but realized with a start that he wasn't denying it; "...oh my god you're a criminal. How are you even alive?"

"He's _not_ a criminal, Talia." Brelyna huffed - and damn it was even cute through all the dirt and filth and puss she was covered in - crossing her arms; "At least, not a real one."

"I kinda figured, given he's _alive_." Talia rolled her eyes; "Present company _very_ much considered."

"Okay, _what_ am I missing here?" Anders asked, glancing nervously at his - maybe? - colleague. Fellow healer or doctor at least.

"Nothing, nothing." Brelyna waved him off, a small tick to her eyes as they locked onto Talia's; "He's just...remember how you saved Jowan and _didn't_ turn him into the Chantry? I really liked that."

"...Brelyna." Talia sighed.

"...yes?"

"Did you take on a blood mage in one of the most densely populated settlements in southern Thedas?"

"What?" to her credit, at least the girl seemed aghast at the notion; " _No_ , no, no no, no I _didn't_."

" _But_...?"

 _"But...he's...maybe_ an apostate, and there's maybe Templars in the city, and _Cíada's_ in Amaranthine _too_ , and they'd probably haul him back to the Circle and make him Tranquil and...that kind of things." The Dunmeri girl finally relented, wringing her hands before her like a little girl before her mother; "And I saw him make a small flame one night to keep warm and I realized he was an apostate, so..."

"So...?" Aedan added, eyes on the apparently apostate in the room, looking like he'd rather not be around.

"So...I...thought, what would Talia do, and I remembered how you saved Jowan and...took him under your wing, and...it all worked out fine?" Brelyna tried, her explanation resulting only in Talia wanting to beat her face against a wooden surface. Her own, that was, not Brelyna's.

"Hey, just in my defense, she didn't _ask_." Anders stepped back as if he expected reprisals.

"Meaning?" Aedan asked.

"I was literally just minding my own business, laying low, no trouble to anyone, you know?" the apostate-turned-doctor explained; "Then I cast _one_ small spell to boil some eggs _that I bought_ , and suddenly there's this red-eyes girl hauling me off with promises of doing good by my fellows and..."

"So, you kidnapped him." Talia surmised, turned to her friend. She wasn't going to admit to it right now, but this _was_ a little funny.

"...maybe?" Brelyna wrung her hands; "But, it's not _kidnapping_ if I put him to work, is it?"

"I think that's what they call slavery." The Breton sighed, and all of a sudden she felt way too much like her dad. Not exactly a good spot to be in. To make matters even less funny, Aedan was looking at her as if somehow, suddenly, this was still very much amusing to him.

"What." She snapped at him.

"Oh I didn't say anything." He hummed; "But you definitely did, back in Redcliffe. And look who's taken after you."

Talia buried her face in her hands.

"...gods damn it."

* * *

 **So I'm basically trying to get a bit of humor back into the story.  
**

 **I know there's been times where it's been so goddamn Grimm-dark I might as well have been writing 40K. I'm not entirely sure how well it actually came out though, considering that, as much as I love comedy, it's not my strongest side.**


	32. Enemy Inside

**Enemy Inside**

* * *

Seeing Cíada again, pacing in front of Amaranthine's Chantry no less, brought up a lot of mixed feelings within Talia.

The first one, of course, was the stark reminder that the diminutive girl actually _supported_ the Circle. It was a hard thing to wrap her head around entirely, though not as impossible as it had once been. She supposed, in a way, she'd grown to accept it as a necessary evil, though in no way did it mean she _liked_ it. Then, there was the fact that the Circle was part of the _Chantry_.

The very same Chantry responsible for the latest attempt at arson in Highever. Talia could not lie and claim she would shed even a dry tear were the Divine to be found murdered. This was unwarranted warfare, pillaging and slaughter, and the Empire had, to her knowledge, done its damned best to avoid provoking Orlais. And certainly, Highever had done _nothing_ to warrant being attacked from the sea.

The question plaguing her mind, even as she ascended the stairs to the Chantry, was how involved _Ferelden's_ Chantry was in this whole mess. Technically they were declared Excommunicated, according to Nathaniel, which begged the question if they were going to throw their full support in behind the Exalted March, in an attempt to win back some favor...or whether they were going to flip them off in the very figurative sense of the word.

And, of course, it meant there was a very real question as to where Cíada stood in all of this. Talia froze in more or less the same moment the elf did, their eyes meeting before she'd even fully cleared the stairs. Cíada...did not look all that great, actually. She'd stopped dead in her pacing, weary, bagged eyes somewhat locked on her own.

" _Oh_...Talia?" She wasn't sure if that was more weariness or dislike, though all things taken into consideration, it was probably the former; "...I thought you were in Highever."

"Hey, Cíada..." Right, there was no way this was how you started a casual conversation with someone _technically_ your friend. She'd never really been able to get a complete read on the Circle mage, which had in turn meant she'd never fully wanted to turn her back on her. It wasn't a fair call to make, and she knew that; "...you look...good?"

"I own a mirror, I _know_ I look like shit." the elf snapped, before scrounging up her face and letting out a heavy sigh; "Yeah, sorry, I'm...not really feelin' all that sociable right now."

"Got something to do with why you're pacing outside the Chantry?" Talia nodded her head at the doors. They looked locked, and there was a note nailed to the left side.

"...kinda." Cíada gave the doors a glance before taking a seat on the top of the stairs. Talia hesitated for a moment before joining her, not really wanting to push it; "You've heard about the Exalted March, I guess."

"Hard not to..." Talia sighed; "Didn't actually, until we got to Vigil's Keep. The Arl told us, and about Highever being attacked...This what's bothering you, I take it?"

It was a long, awkward silence, at least for her, before Cíada replied. Her hands clenched the hems of her robes, which seemed somewhat finer, or at least of better quality than last she'd seen the elf.

"...Ferelden's the birthplace of Andraste, you know." It was more or less voiced as a question, and Talia merely nodded. If there was _one_ thing she could thank the cultists in Haven for, her powers aside, it was the forced interaction with Genitivi, and the general crash course in just why this place was so damn important to Andrastians; "...I don't actually know how to follow up that sentence. We're not heretics, but the Divine's comfortable burnin' down our towns and villages! Fereldans have been put to the sword and flame... _because we accepted help?_ "

There was anger in her voice when she finished, and Talia found herself suffering from unexpected empathy, or at least sympathy, for the girl. Cíada's whole life seemed built around the anchor that was the Circle, and in turn the Chantry. She was so devout it'd bordered on the irritating when they'd travelled together. It was far too strange that she and Leliana hadn't hit it off more than they did. And now, that anchor had come crashing down around her. As a Fereldan, Cíada was now a branded heretic and excommunicate, regardless of her faith.

"Sorry."

"Don't be, _fuck_." The girl snorted; "Ferelden'd probably be a smoking ruin by now if it wasn't for the Empire bailing us out, even _if_ we'd managed to beat down the Darkspawn at Denerim. Dunno if you're aware, but the army was pretty much _fucked_ afterwards. We'd have had Darkspawn cropping up again in no time. Instead, we got these weird soldiers from a land no one even knew of, who just up'n offered to put themselves between us and those tainted fuckers."

"But it meant the Chantry declared Ferelden the target for an Exalted March." She wasn't sure _why_ she was trying to brand her own people as the bad guys, but it probably had something to do with making Cíada feel better. In hindsight it was goddamn stupid; "...I'm not really helping."

"No, you're not." There was little humor in the short laugh from the elf; "Not like you _can_ either. I'm just trying to deal with the fact that the representatives of Andraste and the Maker would love to see me tied to a stake and set ablaze. _Fuck,_ and I'd a pilgrimage planned to the Cathedral in Val Royeaux next year. I'm gonna have to scratch thát one, I think."

"Right..." She wasn't going to comment on _that_ one. Especially because she really couldn't, considering she herself had tried getting transport to see a goddamn _tree_ in Kynesgrove once. Talia sighed and adjusted her seat on the staircase, the cold stone slowly draining her rear of warmth; "So...what are you doing here in Amaranthine? I doubt you're seeking employ with the Legion, plus it'd be the wrong damn direction."

"I'm not exactly soldier material." The elf snorted; "I suppose...I came to find out for myself where the Chantry, _our_ Chantry, stands in this mess."

"...and?"

"Well it's fuckin' barred." Cíada pointed at the paper nailed to the door; "Apparently the Chantry is in emergency assembly, wherever and whatever the hell _that_ is."

"I don't see Cullen anywhere?" Talia frowned, because yes, actually that was a thing with Circle apprentices, wasn't it? They needed a Templar guardian or chaperone with them outside the Tower.

"Cullen's in Denerim, I think." The small mage hummed; "The Knight-Commander wanted him to look into how the _fuck_ the healers missed the tainted wound on Irving. I hope he breaks whomever was in charge's knees."

"Ah..." Yeah, she wasn't going to try and pretend his death had made her sad. At best she'd ended up uncaring of his existence, but even that was probably not the soundest of comments to make either; "...Ser Ava, then?"

"She's here in Amaranthine alright, along with that poor old bastard Boris." A small smile crept up on Cíada's lips at the latter's name; "It's more or less purely a coincidence though. I'm here to bitch at the Chantry, they're here to find the _dumbest_ mage south of Tevinter."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, so the Circle received a decree from the Crown, about allowing Harrowed mages to leave upon certain conditions, like joining the army as regulars, or the Legion, or volunteering as healers and that kind of stuff..." the smile started becoming a grin; "Apparently, a certain mage took advantage of all the attention being on the messenger, and jumped into the lake before he heard what the actual message was."

"...what."

"I know, right?" the elf grinned; "The fucking idiot could have stuck around for half an hour and found out he could have just handed in a request. Instead he took a dive and dragged his ass across the country when he could have gotten here anyway with a cart."

"So, Ava and Boris aren't in Amaranthine to haul him back to the Circle?" Talia was finding it hard not to crack a smile of her own. Gods, Brelyna was going to flip her shit when she realized the situation, and _she_ was going to be right there when it happened.

"Not unless the moron's committed a crime, but I know this guy, and he's even more harmless than Jowan." Cíada paused, as if realizing she was referring to a Grey Warden as _harmless_ ; "Okay, but in general he's just a lazy good-for-shit-all. Pretty talented at healing, actually, if he'd ever bothered developing it. Wynne offered to train him once, I think."

"...just, out of absolutely hypothetical curiosity..." Talia sighed, and Cíada turned to look at her; "...this moron, he wouldn't happen to be a gangly blonde with a penchant for sassing nobles that could have him beaten for being rude?"

"...Prophet's ass you've met Anders." It was weird how it was such a casual statement, more full of resignation and sympathy than surprise; "What's he done now?"

"You know that clinic treating the sick from the countryside?"

"Yeah, I think...Brelyna? She's more or less running it, last I heard." Considering the two elves hadn't really spent much time interacting during the Blight - aside from that one time where everyone got absolutely _shitfaced_ and the smaller pointy-ear declared her love for the group - Talia felt the girl could be forgiven not being totally famIlliar with the Dunmeri mage; "Why? Did he get himself crippled or infected? Wardens might be a great place for him, provided you don't shank him when he backs out."

"...okay." She'd be honest, wasn't really sure where the shanking part came from; "But, no...he's actually helping out, not exactly sure _what_ he does though. But he's shit-scared of stepping a foot out the door. He's actually convinced you're here to track him down, same with the Templars."

For a long moment, Cíada's jaw worked as if it expected words to come out. Finally, it closed, and her eyes did the same until a long, suffering sigh blew out her nose.

"...I refuse to be shocked."

"Mm."

"You're saying he's _helping_?"

"Looked that way." Talia shrugged; "Dressed up like a proper medic and everything. Also covered in shit, but apparent Brelyna came up with a preventive against the Taint."

"...actually that's _still_ more believable than Anders lifting a finger for others." Cíada scoffed; "You know we once had a demonic possession of one of the Circle's cats, and he just chilled out in a closet while it ate four Templars?"

"You mean he _hid_ in the closest."

"I mean the bastard fell asleep." The girl sighed; "Never mind. You're here alone?"

"Funny you should ask, Aedan's here too."

"Oh?" the elf glanced around as if he'd come jumping out of the shadows, or scaling down the walls; "I don't see the pretty boy."

"He's out looking for the Templars."

"...right." Cíada looked like she was _done_ with the whole thing; "Just...just let's go pay Anders a visit. Then we can..."

The elf's words stilled as down below, the streets echoed with a scream.

"What was that?" Talia felt her guts freeze as what had at first been a single, half-choked scream, soon enough spread amongst so many mouths that it no longer resembled human voices. She realized with a start that she had bolted to her feet, one hand already reaching for a glaive that was not there.

They had left it with Nathaniel.

"Screaming." Cíada was on her feet as well, in contrast to Talia actually wielding a staff; "Lots of it. Too much of it."

There was no word of agreement spoken before both were making haste down the stairs, the screams of terror and anguish only growing stronger in volume as they came closer to the streets. Already she could see a river of humanity, washing all the same way, away from the gates and away from...

"Oh fuck me you're kidding!" Cíada yelled, throwing herself down the last sets of stairs as Darkspawn came into view. How?

How had they gotten inside the city?

And not just a few, but dozens, hundreds. Talia couldn't even count them from where she stood, and they seemed to pour out of the ground itself, out of houses and out of the grates leading to Amaranthine's sewers. Everything in their immediate vicinity was massacred with unrelenting brutality, women, children, the old and the weak. Refugees from Denerim clotted the streets and the alleyways as the foe they'd escaped in Denerim now cut them down and butchered them _inside_ the walls of Amaranthine!

Talia struck out, vaporizing the closest Hurlock with a blast of lightning.

Fury boiled within her at the sight of so many corpses already littering the streets, desecrated and brutalized beyond words. Entrails strewn from the bellies of children and those who had been trampled in the panic turned the cobblestone street slick with blood. It was only the smell of singed air in her nostrils and she threw about fire and lightning, that allowed her to stay above the nausea and urge to vomit. She lashed out with fire and shock, charring and scorching the monsters where they stood in droves.

Brelyna was never not armed, but Aedan was out there somewhere, unarmored and barely even armed at all. Fear drove her forward as much as fury did, even as Cíada at her side spewed corrosive spellfire wherever Talia did not strike out first. There was no use even trying to talk, the air and the walls still resounding with screams and the crash of metal. Walking the streets was to walk atop the bodies of the slain and the murdered, even as the city guard marshalled and fought back.

Amaranthine had been at peace not even an hour before this, and now the city was a butcher's bench.

 _This..._ Was _this_ what Alma had wanted her here for?

* * *

The Imperial Highway had seen a lot of traffic over the past month.

It had seen armies marching first one way, then the other. It had seen streams of refugees, bandits, Darkspawn and even a Dalish clan. It had also seen the Dwarven army marching on the surface, first to the aid of Denerim, then to retake a Thaig.

Now it bore witness - and foundations - to a traveling pair. A man and an elf, both peasants by appearance, rode a small, rugged-looking cart dragged by an even more rugged-looking mule. The odd passerby would have noted most of all the surprising delicacy of the elf, and the oddity of their apparent levity, the approaching Orlesians taken into account.

"So, how does it feel to wear the garb of a peasant?"

There was clear amusement in Illia's voice as she spoke. She was herself still dressed in the same simple garb as she had been in the Emperor's tent, while he himself now wore the attire of a Fereldan peasant. It was not quite as uncomfortable as he'd thought it would be.

It helped that Illia's dress - which was apparently one she'd taken from a vacated house in some village they'd come past with the army - was a Fereldan design as well, and bore the low cut in front as was common with the people of the valley.

Phillipe would have been a liar if he'd claimed the view was not enticing whenever she turned towards him.

"Better than I'd have thought, in truth." He chuckled at her expression, just a little bit annoyed that she could not have the jest at his cost; "It's very much like what I wear when I work in the vineyard, back home."

"...We should probably cease mentions of vineyards and the like, just in case." Illia said, eyes ahead now. In the distance, thin trails of smoke rose into the skies. A village then, or a town; "Remember, we're refugees from Portsmouth. It'll help explain the lilt in your accent. And wipe that damned smile off your face, you've just lost your _homestead_ to the Orlesians."

"Yes, dearest wife." He chuckled at the reddening of her cheeks, even if it was but a very slight tint. Oh, certainly Charles would have had a great deal of fun, at both their behalves. It was maybe a better thing then, that his comrade was not here. Charles was sent with the men south, and would probably soon enough gain enough glory for the both of them. Phillipe was content with his own task, in truth.

Especially as Illia had revealed herself as more than eager to take him up on his agreement to continue where they left off. The woods had not been quiet the first night they'd been across the river. She'd ridden him harder than before, and he could still feel the ache, even now when it was approaching late midday.

Their backgrounds had been made to be as easily remembered as possible, just for simplicity's sake. He was a mere peasant who'd worked the fields and sold his crops, and she a denizen of the town's small alienage. A chance meeting at the market, and later in one of the innumerable taverns the town had had before it'd been burned to a razed ruin. Phillipe did not agree with the Chantry's actions on that part, and found himself in some conflict as to how to react when he'd heard of the raids.

But, this was why the Emperor was so keen on getting to Denerim before the Chantry's warships. If they could take away the cause for the Exalted March, they could spare the people of Ferelden further trials. And once they realized the genuine desire to help that the Emperor embodied, surely they might even embrace Orlais as brothers and sisters.

"We'll seek out the cheapest inn, just to make sure."

"The Emperor _did_ give us quite the pouch of gold..." Phillipe hummed, though he could do little but nod; "I agree though, it'd be better if we remained as true to appearances as possible."

"Exactly."

"Shouldn't we just pitch tents in the woods again, then?" he asked, raising a brow; "It's hardly cold anymore at night, and we could make it seem we have barely the coin to even purchase food."

"...not a bad idea." Illia admitted, a coy smile slowly spreading on her face; "...and you're certain this isn't just you wishing to take me against a tree again?"

"Well..." Phillipe coughed, better than to admit she had caught him out; "I was just trying to be expedient, and we'd risk discovery if we gave a report in the thin-walled rooms of a tavern."

Illia looked at him like she was trying to discern whether he was full of manure or not. He would admit it, to himself at least, that the prospects of being with her again, under the starry skies with only the lights of the burning campfire illuminating them to one another, was a damn tempting one indeed. Finally, it seemed she relented, and merely nodded her consent.

The smile remained.

They made camp that night in the woods north of Exwold, a small hamlet with the audacity to brand itself a town. It was nestled on both sides of the Imperial Highway, and flourished as well as one might imagine on those who came through with wares they'd not dared risk on the earthen roads of the inner Bannorns.

Phillipe was no stranger to such ventures, as both his youth and his career as a Chevalier had seen him camped in the woods, upon the fields under an open sky, or in the mud of the Exalted Plains. It was, however, the first time he did so with a woman as his only company.

For a Circle mage, Illia was surprisingly adept at pitching tents and starting fires, the latter without the use of magic in the case that Fereldan Templars were nearby, or patrolled the roads for Darkspawn during what was the Thaw that followed every Blight.

He left the mule to grass and munch upon acorns and whatever else was strewn across the forest floor. Illia was poking at the logs with a stick, adjusting them for the ease of the flames. At first, Phillipe had found it slightly awkward to sit next to the elven woman he'd barely known beyond the carnal. But, after spending days next to her, playing pretend at being her husband for the sake of curious natives, it no longer gave him but a slight sucking sensation in the bottom of his guts when he joined her next to the fire.

"Not yet, we're eating first." She admonished him before he'd had a chance to even speak. Phillipe couldn't really help a laugh, much to Illia's bemusement. He hadn't even begun to make a move, and she'd already assumed him to do just that. Maker, was he really so easily read?

"I am such an open book to you?"

"You're a man, Phillipe, and a Chevalier to boot." She...it was not a giggle, not per se, but it was rather close. Her eyes returned to the flames, and the pot that rested upon the logs now; "I can see it in your eyes, the way you walk, the way you breathe. I'll admit, it _is_ pretty flattering that a Chevalier would be like you are towards me."

"What do you mean?" He dared to frown, knowing that she might be referring to how many within the ranks of his comrades viewed the city elves as little better than scurrying pests. Would he himself had been so different, if not for his preferences?

"It's not often I've run into Chevaliers who'd treat me as an equal." Illia shrugged, then paused; "Then again, this is the first time I've been on a campaign. I'd be an ass if I put you all in the same box as the Chevaliers in Lydes."

Phillipe coughed into his fist, a mere gesture to remind her of his own origins.

"Sorry." He felt she made up for it well enough when she leaned her side against his, though she did not quite reach his height. It was warm, and soft all the same, her skin so smooth that it had to be magic; "You're a good man, Phillipe, I think. You'll be some woman a good husband one day. Seeing as you're a landed Chevalier, not like there'll be a shortage of 'em either."

"You honor me." He would not admit the effect those words had on him, and so instead found himself a way out, along with a grin; "Though I doubt you'd be a good housewife... The pot's boiling over."

"Son of a-"

* * *

 **I'm starting to grow a little fond of Illia and Phillipe, I have to admit.**

 **That attack on Amaranthine though, came just out of nowhere, as if the events of Awakening would proceed even if there was no Grey Warden to see it occur before the final stages.**


	33. What the Storm washes away

**I'll be honest, a certain segment in this chapter was damn depressing to write.**

 **You can probably guess afterwards which one it was...**

* * *

 **What the Storm washes away**

* * *

Alma would admit to this not being her finest moment.

To be fair, at least in her own eyes, she'd done what she could to avert this kind of mess, within reason. Giving the city guard pointers at weaknesses in Amaranthine's defenses had been met with dismissal, for who was she but some old woman? A hag who'd joined the chorus of the uncertain and the frail, of those who saw Darkspawn in every shadow and crook?

Still, even if they had dismissed her, she had noticed an increase in guard patrols, and men had been withdrawn from the more rural areas of the countryside. Whether or not that was her due, she didn't know, and frankly, considering the current mess, it hadn't been enough.

Down below, the streets of Amaranthine were packed with stampeding crowds, driven halfway mad with fear and terror as the Darkspawn they'd sought to flee in either small villages and hamlets in the countryside, or even Denerim itself, had now come for them here instead. It was like watching herded sheep, with the wolves nipping at their heels as they forced themselves past one another, disregarding the lives of others in favor of their own. Not that she could blame them, of course, but...

The Darkspawn didn't even have to run, such was the chaos of the crowds.

" _I sense the loss of aa great many lives, Kiir."_

"Yeah well...it was bound to happen." She sighed, eyes scanning the few places she could immediately pick out, where some form of resistance was being offered. Even then, the city guard was neither armed nor prepared to engage with such numbers, and _within_ the walls, to boot; "Blight's not done with Ferelden as long as those two breathe..." She'd never actually established whether Darkspawn needed air. She assumed they did; "...and I can't wipe them out before the girl knows of them."

" _And she would only know, once the city is butchered?"_

"...not like that." It wasn't like the screams of countless of innocents being butchered _didn't_ have an impact on her. No matter how many times she'd been forced to hear it, the music of a massacre remained as revolting as always; "She needs to see the First."

" _You speak of talking Darkspawn, again."_

He'd never believed the claim, nor really when she'd explained the Architect, and the Mother. Abominations that belonged in the planes of the Daedra, not in the mortal realm. He would see, with time, even if the ancient dragon did not believe her claims. Urthemiel had been all he'd known could direct the Darkspawn.

So, in a strange way, the old dragon was as much in the dark as the girl was. There was irony there, definitely, and she'd probably have found the changing of roles funny, if not for the ceaseless cacophony of death and mutilation down below. Instead it just left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, the resignation to her inability to do what she knew had to be done, without the mountains of bodies piling up around her.

Amaranthine was lucky, she supposed, in that the Darkspawn seemed to have only tunneled as far in as the first ring-street. The city was more or less made up of those, like a beehive's hexagonal chambers, each with a little fortress in the middle. Some were expansive complexes of concentric walls and battlements, while others were just towers and stockades. All the same, it gave the denizens some chance at escaping with their lives, far better than had the Darkspawn tunneled in all the way to the center of the city.

She tracked the streams of the fleeing, eyes rowing over the backs of men and woman from all layers of society, now meshed together in a stream of humanity that sought refuge behind the next portcullis. Finally, she found the spot where the defenders from the next ring had started coming out, and joined where what few had managed to gather up in the affected ring.

It was hard to see him in the throng, but Alma remembered well enough every hair on the head of the boy she'd raised. Aedan was down there, swinging his sword alongside a pair of Templars. A pit gnawed at her guts when she realized he was unarmored, and fought in little but his gambeson and noble cloak. All the same, the abilities of a Grey Warden were not to be underestimated, and could not be ignored when he displayed such power and speed compared to the Templars at his side.

" _The Kiir is engaged as well."_ Hakkon forced her eyes away from Aedan, and to one of the streets further away. The corridors and facades flashed with spellfire almost too rapidly, and too violently, for it to be anyone else. Alma pushed off from one rooftop, and found herself atop another barely a moment later, wherefrom she could see well enough what went on below; _"She has become ferocious, not less so with egg."_

"Humans just call it pregnancy, Hakkon..." she muttered, taking a weird sort of pride in watching as the brat and some other mage - from the Circle, if those robes were to be believed - forced their way through the scores of Darkspawn. They left behind little but ashes, charred bodies and puddles of goo where acid had done its work; "She's definitely gotten better at this, you're right."

" _What do you intend to do?"_

"What I said I'd do." Alma scoffed, turning her gaze from the mages below. Somewhere in the ring, or maybe just outside the city, the First was directing what went on within; "I'm going to find an old friend. And then I'm going to beat him to a pulp."

* * *

Talia had lost count, at some point, of how many Darkspawn she'd killed.

At the start she'd counted them, subconsciously, at the back of her mind. There'd been the predatory part of her, the part too heavily influenced by Hakkon's will to actively be called her own. It _loved_ the carnage, and the blood that flowed in the streets like rivers.

Once, even just killing one Darkspawn would have constituted a challenge. It was a dangerous beast, and still was now, in all honesty, but...there was a point where they simply ceased being _threats_ , and became something like fodder. She was already wading through their broken bodies, barely even slowing down as spellfire flowed from her hands like mud from a child's. Cíada worked at her side, but even as the elf unleashed corrosive spells and swarms of entropic creatures, it could barely keep up with the degree of destructive powers she was throwing at the Darkspawn.

And yet, they still kept coming, streaming out of openings in the ground as if during the Blight itself. It was a hellish sight, as if the Gates of Oblivion had torn themselves open. Was this the kind of shit Martin Septim had somehow dealt with?

"They're not really thinning out, are they?!" Cíada almost; "Where the _fuck_ are they even coming from?!"

Talia didn't have an answer. Not that she'd have had the chance to give it, either, when a new voice joined the conversation, though Cíada probably didn't have a clue.

" _You leave a wake of bodies and blood, Kiir!"_

She nearly leapt on the spot when Hakkon's voice rang in her mind, full of what was no-doubt enthusiasm at the carnage. She'd even nearly throw a fireball at the diminutive mage. _Son of a whore Hakkon! You nearly made me shoot Cíada!_

" _Krosis, Kiir."_ He did not at all sound apologetic, not that Talia cared much when she currently had an unspecified amount of Darkspawn left on her 'to exterminate' list. It was a fairly long list, she could already tell as much; _"It has been some time since last we spoke."_

So, a social call then? Alma had said the old dragon lacked for company, but gods damn it this was _not_ the right time for that kind of shit. She'd half a mind to tell the old reptile to shove it, though knew it'd be a poor choice of words, in hindsight too.

" _Can it be some more time? I'm a LITTLE busy."_

Even just talking to him as it was, proved one distraction too many. Her movements had slowed down, and allowed a group of the Darkspawn to encroach on her from the front. Only their sudden transition from solid to liquid states, courtesy of the Circle, meant she avoided being skewered.

"Hey! Don't slip up now, I'd really rather not haul your dead ass to the pretty boy!" Cíada yelled, hurling what looked suspiciously like a glob of sizzling _snot_ at a charging Alpha. The Hurlock continued its charge, even as the acidic nasal excrements ate it from top to bottom, until a pair of legs simply fell apart, five short meters from the pair; "Mostly because I don't know if I can even _lift_ you!"

"Sorr-!"

" _ **DIIN"**_

At the other end of the street, a harsh voice echoed off the walls, and with it a haze of cold so stark it cracked masonry soaked in blood, and killed plants and vines wherever they grew upon the facades.

It spread far too rapidly for the eye to properly track, until the wave of frost rolled through the Darkspawn ranks all the way up to where they were fighting, yet the spell - because there was no goddamn way it wasn't a spell - caused neither her nor the elf harm, beyond aching gums as the flash-freeze rolled by.

It had barely lasted beyond a second, yet now Talia and Cíada found themselves surrounded with the most macabre of ice sculptures. Every Darkspawn around them, even the ones she'd been in the process of blowing away herself, had frozen solid. The cold had frozen them with such suddenness that even as it had made their eyes burst, the liquids themselves had frozen where they were, like miniscule droplets of water frozen off the side of a stream.

"What...what the... _what the fuck..."_ Cíada expressed her thoughts well enough. Talia, for her part, maintained what she hoped was a mask of calm. On the insides she was torn between gratitude towards whatever mage had helped them out - being an actually certified Warden, she refused to say 'saved' - and being somewhat disturbed at the fact that she very much had recognized the voice.

So, in a way, she wasn't really all _that_ surprised when Alma strode into view, weaving through what Darkspawn she didn't simply topple. She would, however, admit to some surprise at seeing the old woman decked out in full, Imperial plate. Cíada, to her credit, didn't immediately relax. Maybe it was the fact that the old woman was dressed more as a soldier than a mage.

A long, ornately carved glaive rested on her shoulder. Talia actually paused at how similar the design seemed to her own, only it was visibly older, and far more weathered and nicked.

"Hey girls."

The most unsettling thing about her right now, however, was the fact that she was dragging around a Darkspawn like a sack of potatoes. And it was very much _not_ dead. So much in fact that it was kicking and snarling at the hand clenched around its ankle, even if both arms seemed broken in multiple places.

Cíada, maybe sensing that Talia wasn't overly nervous, seemed to relax her stance, if only a little. She was still clearly on the tips of her toes, but had quenched the spellfire for now. She did not approach the newcomer, however, instead offering a bow that was deep enough to show gratitude, but not deep enough to rob her sight from the steel-clad mage.

"I'm...whomever you are, Serah, your aid was certainly timely."

"Aww, she's so polite too." Alma cooed, turning to Talia; "You do know how to make adorable friends."

"Alma." She allowed herself an actual sigh, more to get her breath back than out of relief; "Why are you dressed like a Legionary, and...what's that?"

"Oh, this little guy?" the old woman smiled and grabbed the Darkspawn by the neck to haul it up for examination. It looked like a Hurlock, but on closer inspection it was clearly different. The eyes were the first indication that something was _wrong_ about it; "He followed me home, so I thought I'd keep him."

"...followed you home." Talia deadpanned; "And, when exactly did that happen?"

"Well, I was around Vigil's Keep and it seemed pretty crowded with Darkspawn, so..." the old woman shrugged, itself a bizarre visage when the armor was considered. It looked almost as heavy as what she'd seen Cailan wear at Ostagar; "...I stopped by, wiped them out and picked this little guy up."

Cíada's breathing hitched, her expression hard to read. Was she in awe or in terror, or simply in disbelief of the madness that was Alma's general vicinity? "Who the hell _are_ you?"

"Alma. Pleasure's all yours, I'm sure." The old woman even managed a courteous bow, whilst still maintaining an iron grip on the Hurlock. White-faced and with red markings around the eyes, it was definitely no normal Hurlock; "Now, Talia, I'd like you to meet the First."

* * *

It had been three days now.

Three days since the arrival of the Tenth in Laysh.

Veruin Kratorius packed up his shaving kit, taking just a moment to inspect himself in the small mirror on his desk. Clean shaven and smooth as he could make it, he found the result satisfactory, though he allowed himself another moment's worth of retrospection.

They were headed south now, today. When he mounted Hannibal, he would not again dismount him in Laysh, or even in its vicinity. It'd be dozens of kilometers south, maybe even in sight of the southern mountains. He sighed, resigned to the notion that the days of diplomacy and playing at ambassador at the Hossberg court were behind him. Now, instead, awaited a long march, and then battle.

His eyes glanced to where the different parts of his armor rested on its stand, ready for him to don. The cuirass, sheets of segmented plates of steel, each made to slide perfectly with the next to allow for mobility and flexibility, seemed to almost reflect his gaze. The helmet atop it, a closed, angled visor with but a pair of angled eye-holes, seemed to outright stare back.

The cuisse's and the greaves were already on his legs, as were the platemail sabatons on his feet. It was strange to wear such gear, so different and yet alike to the armor of an infantryman. They were always the first to put on, lest he'd have to deal with bending over in plate. Even the armor of the Legionary had some drawbacks, and such was one of them.

He'd not been given a Lanciia, the lance of the cavalry shock troops, for as the commander of them he would need instead a far more symbolic weapon. The steel blade resting in its sheath to his right was a beautiful weapon, a cavalry sword where his old had been a gladii. The Spatha was made and meant for the purpose of cutting a man down where he stood, from the elevated position of a saddle.

It was a strange middle point between the gladii and the kind of swords the Nords used.

Finally, content with himself, and properly armored, he knelt before the small shrine in his chambers. Akatosh, Arkay and Julianos needed their respect, and he offered it in full, along with the quiet prayer that he might perform his task well, and see himself and his charges home alive.

A prayer he knew might not be fulfilled.

* * *

The wide-rimmed, arching crest of a Centurion's helm was a strange thing to behold again, after so many years.

Lucius had caught himself staring at it, idly wondering if this was real, if he had truly been returned to his old rank. There was a sort of alien familiarity to it, as if it was meant to be his, and yet he was unworthy of it. The spring sun shone in the polished metallic dome, nearly enough that it could blind a man.

Finally, he resigned to the notion that, indeed, for his work in Laysh the General had restored him to the rank of Centurion. It had not been what he expected, in truth neither had the previous promotion to Optio. When people were first once demoted from Centurion to Quastor, it was not often they would once again attain their old position. The promotion had come with a small medallion, an amulet with the Horn of Julianos as its symbol. He knew it well enough, and the responsibilities implied with it, beyond a mere badge of trust from his superior.

The helmet came on, and he secured the straps enough so that it wouldn't rattle, but he also knew from experience that overdoing it was one fast-track way to a headache.

He'd been given command of the Sixth Cohort, now restored to almost its full strength with reserves from the oversized Legion. Many had no notion of what Darkspawn were, nor of the intricacies of the native cultures or traditions. He could only hope that they themselves, being from both Skyrim, Cyrodiil, High Rock and a few from Hammerfell, would be able to view it as simply yet another culture, yet another people like them.

"So...this is when you leave?"

He'd been so caught up in his thoughts, he'd not heard her approach. He should have, for by the gods he might be older than her, but a man in his early forties should not already lose his hearing. Sister Saklya of the Laysh Chantry stood before him, pretty as a flower, yet wilted and demure as had the rain failed for weeks. She'd been in an awkward state since news of the Exalted March down south had reached Laysh, and he'd not seen her as often as he'd liked.

"Yes." He found it hard to give any answer but the obvious, and honest one. It did not seem to be the one she wanted, however; "I've been given command of the Sixth."

"I know." The atmosphere between them was tense, he wasn't blind to that, nor to the affections she seemed to nurture for him. That as well, was an awkward state, mostly as he felt himself too old for her, and the knowledge that such was not the way for the Chantry's sisters; "...it's a nice helmet."

"It's...mostly just symbolic." He admitted; "It's just so the men can tell me out from the chaos, and know what orders to take."

Silence, again, took its place between them. He did not know what to say, and she seemed hesitant to say anything at all. Seconds passed before she did.

"So...you'll be going into battle, then."

"I will."

"Will you..." there was a hitch in her voice, and she stopped herself until she seemed over it. Lucius wanted to embrace her, despite himself, but knew it'd not likely make things better; "...are you going to be in the front?"

"I don't know." He could only be honest with her; "The cohorts move as needed on the battlefield...Saklya, _please_ , don't worry so for me. It'll not help me, and only be a distraction for you."

He could tell she was biting her cheek, and he wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say. She was silent now, and he knew time was running short before he would be required to muster with his men. He wanted to reassure her, but knew no way to do so that would not be a lie. He lowered his head, chin coming to touch on the straps for the medallion he'd been gifted.

"But..." he started, an idea forming. It was a stupid one, far too sentimental, and probably one that would see him in trouble if found out; "...you'll see me again."

"How do you know that?" it hurt, actually and unexpectantly, to hear that merge of desperation and hopefulness, as well as distrust in her voice, even as he removed the necklace. Saklya stared as he handed her the small, iron-forged horn.

"Well, I would rather like this returned to me one day"

She did not say a word, only nodded and clutched it tightly against her chest. He took it as his cue, that now it was time to leave. Already he could hear trumpets calling for muster, and he knew he'd have to be there before the men.

He had not walked three steps before arms wrapped around him from behind, and he could feel Saklya's head pressed against the lower of his neck, as high as she could reach. There were few tall women in Laysh, she was no exception. He could feel her uneven breathing, a tell enough on its own that she was on the verge of tears. When she finally managed words, they came out barely above a whispered plea;

" _Come back to me._ "

* * *

Charles knew this might be a grueling task.

He'd known from the moment their leader, one of the oldest and most esteemed of the Chevaliers in their ranks, Duke Bernard de Lion, had begun his speech. The man was old enough that it seemed a miracle he still could sit his horse, no less couch his lance or swing a warhammer. Scars beyond counting on his face alone bore witness to a life of combat and strife, and that he'd come out the victor for all it could throw at him.

He had a few fresh scars himself, mostly from wooden splinters goring his face when that monster had slammed him against the bridge as if he were a doll. That he could do nothing to stop her had only furthered the humiliation he'd felt, even through the pain and the fear. Phillipe had won great esteem amongst their peers when he took her down, though it was somewhat lessened later on when it was revealed she had escaped their clutches. Charles was not one who would chastise the Emperor, Maker save him, but the desire to take their attacker alive had brought with it more trouble than he believed her worth.

"You've all heard the story, I'm sure!" Duke Bernard called, it being necessary for his voice to reach to the hundreds of Chevaliers and foot-squires. Professional and swift, they were to be the hammerblow to the anvil in Gherlen's Pass; "That a mere few hundred of these Imperials vanquished thousands of Darkspawn in the north. Well, whatever you might think of that tale, that you think it pure rumors or not, allow me to squash whatever fancies you hold, for it is true as the Maker's grace!"

Charles knew, of course. The Orlesian ambassador in Hossberg was his cousin twice removed, and he'd learned soon enough when the man had returned to Orlais after Celene's demise. The Imperials were fearsome soldiers, who apparently were each the match of several of those tainted monsters. He did not entirely look forward to engaging with them, but at the same time, the Chevalier in him reveled at the thought of such opponents.

Phillipe was off on some task, and for the Emperor himself no less. No matter whether his comrade would find glory on a battlefield or not, such esteem and trust from their liege was bound to carry with it fame and fortune. It would be no exaggeration to claim that Phillipe had gained the best of tasks, and Charles himself was not yet entirely sure what had made the Emperor pick him.

But, pick him he had. Charles could have felt some resentment towards that, especially for the fact that his friend was given a rather desirable travelling companion. But, all the same he chose not to, for such was not the Chevalier's way, and so it was not his.

Instead, he would find his own fame and glory, not on clandestine tasks for the Emperor, but rather upon the field of battle. Charles knew himself well enough that he was confident in his own abilities, and in the quality of his gear. His platemail was almost all-encasing, and what was not protected by plate was instead by mail, and the gambeson underneath. Chevauché as well, was protected, plates of steel guarding his front and his flanks, and his head as well. Charles always insisted on ensuring the headpieces were firmly, yet comfortably affixed, for by the Maker he'd not let his steed suffer beyond what battle brought.

Duke Bernard watched them all, though likely in turn watching no one in particular.

"All the same, we are the better men. The better soldiers." Charles puffed his chest out a little at the declarations; "Each of us is worth two of them, and we are near to twice their numbers! Each of you, Chevalier and footman both, encompass the very soul, the very _élan_ of our people and the Chevalier's code. Hold that in your hearts, and we will be victorious this day. Already, our kinsmen and comrades on the other side of the Pass are making their move on the walls of the defenders, and we shall ensure that they have fewer heathens raining arrows onto them. And, if the Maker wills it and we rout the foe in his entirety, why, you may just yet get to have your names and deeds etched into the annals of history!"

Charles hummed within his helm, quietly trying to be as optimistic as the Duke. It was hardly likely that they would find these outlanders easy foes, and it was known that they had prepared for their coming. The only question remaining was whether it would be enough, or if élan and courage would win the day.

"We will make our own glory, old friend." He stroked Chevauché's flank, taking a moment to simply revel in his familiarity with the beast. Were they to come out of this with glory and skin intact, he knew there'd be little shortage of breeders wishing to have his steed mount their mares; "Phillipe might be off on his task, but it is we who shall make a name for ourselves, and carve it into the bones of these outlanders."

* * *

 **Ah, this is one of those points where you have two sides with good people on both, and you just know they're going to go at each other with the intent to kill. Khaok and Charles will both be at the rear battle, and I'll be damned if I give plot armor out after what I did to Alistair (Funny thing, I was rereading his death the other day and suddenly realized how massive a punch in the gut it probably was for some.)**

 **Well, at least Phillipe and Illia are safe...unless they run into Constanta.**


	34. Gherlen Surrounded

_Come, do you remember when_

 _Gaspard went to war_

 _Heed now Queen Anora's call_

 _See Fereldan spirits soar_

 _Joined by their brothers_

 _With Legion steel they fought his horde_

 _An Exalted March to bear its name_

 _The Chantry's soul is shamed_

 _The Legion's stand_

 _Stood with strangers, firm in hand_

 _Standing tall_

 _Soldiers fall_

 _Then live forever_

 _Arkay!_

 _Talos!_

 _Then, and again, sing of five thousand men!_

 _Defend_

 _Ferelden!_

 _Glory and death, the Legion knows naught of surrender!_

 _\- The Unjust Crusade, Solleret_

* * *

 **Gherlen Surrounded**

* * *

"PIKEMEN! ASSUME POSITIONS!"

Khaok's bellows echoed down the line, made all the easier by the curved trenches marking where they would make their stand. He'd taken the trench-forces, useless as they'd otherwise have been, as well as every single of his own kin he could scrounge up from the entirety of the Legion itself.

It'd left him in command of just shy of a thousand men, most of them either Orsimer or Nords, both of which shared a single, beyond valuable trait. The pikes in their hands, and the strength in their arms and hearts, could be found few other places in Tamriel, not to mention Ferelden as far as he had yet to see. Most, when they thought of his people, did not consider the pike a weapon they valued, far more common as it was to see the berserkers of his kin, wielding axes not even the Nords could hope to master.

When you'd spent most of your people's history underfoot of the Bretoni knights, the pike was soon a friend to all Orcs.

Their trenches would be the deciding factor today, he knew, even as he could smell horses on the wind. Orlais was close now, close enough that he could hope for no more work to be done on the fortifications; they'd have to be enough as they were. Deep enough that a man could stand in them and just barely see above ground, they were as well wide enough to almost appear shallow by comparison, and the side closest to the Legion was planted with plentiful stakes, each no more than a few inches from the other.

"ARCHERS! TAKE POSITIONS! NOTCH ARROWS!"

There were gaps, of course, where they'd not managed to stake the ground, but where the trench itself remained, and then of course the Highway itself. He was dedicating the heavier soldiers to the latter, knowing it would make for the perfect runway for a cavalry charge. Four of them, in total, were the gaps, each wide enough that it nagged him, for if they could drive in a wedge there, or in any of the holes, he'd not dare hope for victory.

Quickly, as befitted the Legion's forces, the men took up positions. Shield walls folded over and in front of the soldiers wielding the thick-shafted menaulae-pikes, protecting the front ranks from arrows and whatever enemy might slip through the forest of steel. The pike wall was vulnerable, and had always been so, to the arrows and bolts of the distant foe.

He knew this, and the Bretoni Arbalesters had been keen teachers of his people.

The Legion's own missile troops took up positions on the mounds and shallow ridges that had formed from the earth dug out of the trenches, and knelt with their weapons at the ready. Once, back in the days of the Septims, slingers as well would have joined their ranks. Additional stakes had been planted at the base of these ridges, a decision he now wondered whether had cost them the time to stake out the rest of the front trenches.

Even though they now covered the gaps in the trenches, he knew there might be infantry with the strike force, or that the Chevaliers might simply dismount in the face of pikes and stakes. What soldiers he could spare from the reserves were placed in the cover of the forest of sharpened wood behind each trench, prepared for engagement should they be needed.

He worried the most about their flanks, knowing that even as they had dug as much into the cliffsides as could be done, it might still be possible to vault them, as the ground had not allowed for stakes to stick in what was essentially rock.

There was some solace, at least, in the four scorpions he'd managed to get his hands on from the front line at the Pass. They were placed upon the tallest ridges, created specifically for their use, and covered as best as could be done with wicker shields and boards. A stray arrow could kill, and the common soldier was not trained to effectively operate such machines. And as the fog had made such weapons of precision next to useless in the Pass, Cauthrien had dedicated two thirds of their bolts for his use.

Khaok paused, frowning as he glared at the ridge ahead.

He could hear them now, the horses.

The trampling of hooves on dirt and grass and stone, even if it was not a charging gallop, it remained a sound that had so often spelled the doom of his own people. The Orc squared his jaw and bared his fangs, sword drawn and shield held at the ready. His blood begged for the shaft of a great axe, or to hold a warhammer large and heavy enough to pulp a man through solid plate, but his training overrode such desires, instilling within him the knowledge that such were not the arms of a Legate, and would serve him ill in a formation. He could break the spine or ribs of any man well enough with his shield anyway.

"ARCHERS! READY!"

This was it.

* * *

" _MENAULAE! FULCUM ASSERTE!"_

It would have been hard to claim the enemy was being discreet, if any such attempt was being made. Charles could not even _see_ the rear lines of the Fereldan and foreigner forces, but apparently the same wasn't the case the other way around. They hadn't yet even crested the ridgeline before coming upon the foe, and already he could hear the order bellowed up ahead.

It was a powerful voice, bestial in a way that made it almost inhuman to the ear. He did not understand it, nor it seemed did the men riding with him, for all that he could gauge their reactions through the slits in their visors.

"Halt!"

At their head rode Duke Bernard, in his gold-crested plate and plumes. Old though he may be, the man was in this moment the very visage of nobility and élan upon the field of battle. He reached a fist for the skies and clenched it, and Charles in turn pulled the reins of Chevauché, bringing his steed to a halt just short of clearing the ridge.

The Duke kicked his own mount, barded and plated to the point of probable invulnerability, into a slow trot ahead of them, even as they formed up a line for him to parade in front. Charles wondered, quietly in his mind, if the man was about to launch into an epic speech. Behind them, in far greater numbers, the common soldiery formed up as well, with their halberds and spears and bows and arrows, maces and swords, glinting in the sun

"Friends, Orlesians, Countrymen, lend me your ears so that you may listen and be commanded, for now comes the hour of glory! Foot archers and serjeants will form up front ranks, engage with whatever missile soldiers they might have, and keep at bay their cavalry, if such is to be found a threat to our own skirmishers. Do what you can to whittle away at their spears and pikes, lest they remain on the field." So, not so much a rallying speech, but rather a last-minute attempt at reminding the commoners to keep to the plan? Charles could not fault the idea; "Once you have exhausted yourselves, fall back behind the heavy infantry, and act as their flanks and support. The Chevaliers will bring the Emperor's hammer down upon these heathen dogs, and shatter the lines entirely that you will have already wounded with arrows. Our scouts believe them to have entrenched themselves and staked the grounds, so be mindful of your footing as well..." the Duke nodded as if to himself, then drew steel from its sheath and jabbed it at the skies ahead; "Now then, let's be at it then, oh my brothers in arms! Remember, above all, the Maker is watching us in this endeavor. Make sure he is not ashamed!"

Charles gave an impetuous Chevauché a slight pull in the reins, making sure his steed remained still as the commoners marched past them, longbows of yew and halberds and spears in their hands. He'd never envied them their roles in battle, even as his own was risker by far. The skies were quickly greying, and it seemed rain might soon be on its way.

He hoped not, he hated riding in the rain.

* * *

Damn it all, it was starting to rain.

Cauthrien didn't move when the first drop struck her pauldron. She knew there would be an attack before the rain would come to an end. Reports from the rear already told her of the impending attack from Gaspard's forces, which meant there'd be one in kind from the front, to catch them between a hammer and an anvil.

But the damnable fog made it all but impossible to tell if there was an army ahead of them, or no one at all. All around her, the men stood at the ready, bows at their feet and a hand on their quivers, or with bolts already lodged in crossbows and ballistae. The catapults and trebuchets were as ready as they could be, the latter frozen in position to crank down the massive sling-arm. The rain was going to be a problem, both for them and for the foe, and she could at least take some solace in the latter.

Though the fog still remained, as the impenetrable veil that ended only mere meters before the base of the ramparts, swallowing up all but the top of the ruined galleries. They would only be warned once the runes detonated, and she felt a sense of trepidation, as if she both longed for and dreaded that first of explosions, when fire and shrapnel might briefly dissipate the clouds.

On the hillsides as well, the men were ready.

She could barely pick them out from the trees, and might not have been able to at all, had she not known exactly where to look. Like silent shadows, dressed in dirty green and brown, they were leant against the trees, hidden in the foliage, or crouched with their longbows, crossbows and slings.

Only the shepherds had brought slings of their own, an old weapon that somehow yet remained in use. Lead and tin flowed through the Tarcaisne hillsides in the Bannorns like rivers, and so instead of stones these men used balls of lead, holes drilled through them so as to produce sounds like a howling demon when hurled.

Khaok had looked upon them with a strange expression of nostalgia, muttering about better days. She'd not been able to pry it from him what he meant, and now almost regretted having given up on the attempts. There was still so much she didn't know about him, or the Empire he ser-

Fire erupted from the fog, a mere dozen meters ahead of where the trenches were, accompanied with panicked screams as fire and brimstone scorched and tore asunder. Cauthrien froze, if only for the moment it took for the runes to detonate again, and again, each in rapid succession as it became clear how wide a force was approaching, under the cover of the fog.

"ARCHERS!" the men had already notched their arrows before she'd finished he shout, and in the tree line as well bows were now raised, ready to shoot; "NOTCH ARROWS!"

Now fireballs and lightning flowed from within the fog, though betraying her fears when they did not even strike close to the wall. Instead they hammered the ground ahead of the first explosions, and the runes there were detonated with great violence and force. Cauthrien scowled, but turned instead her eyes to where the spells came from.

"AIM AT THE SPELLCASTERS! SHOOT WHEREFROM THEY CAST!"

There was no actual order to loose arrows given, and yet it was as well as one. Hundreds of bowstrings and crossbows twanged as they released their volleys, and the siege crews turned their engines upon the closest source they could find, releasing theirs in turn even as the spellfire ceased.

Arrows vanished into the fog, most resounding with the _thuds_ of wood and metal as they struck what could only be shields already raised in expectance of retaliation. There were still cries of pain though, when arrows did slip through the shields and the armor, but the rarity was disheartening. Arrows, bolts and slingers' lead whistled through the rain from both sides of the Pass as well, digging into what sounded more like wooden board than soldiers, though Cauthrien appreciated their contributions all the same, each fog-hidden wail of agony one less man to fight.

When the bolts and stones of ballistae followed, likewise the spellfire of their own mages, the crashes of bodies resounded more clearly, and betraying of the greater impacts, but yet remained less so than she'd have liked. A trebuchet's boulder vanished into the fog as well, and the noises of death dragged on for seconds as its momentum carried it through what sounded like deep ranks of men in armor, for there was no concealing the sounds of twisting metal with meat underneath it.

Closer and closer now were the explosions, as runic mines were either detonated or stepped upon, and soon it had reached the perimeter trench line, where their own forces had once been stationed. Now it was a battleground where fire sprang from the wet soil, turning men in steel and gambesons into flickering candles that danced around in the mist, bright spots where all else was unseen. And as they could not move much around, it took the archers little time to shoot where they ran about, having realized that they must be surrounded by soldiers shaken and disorganized by the explosions.

But they were still getting much too close.

"Second line, drawn steel!" Cauthrien shouted, raising her own sword from its tip's rest on the ground for emphasis; "Prepare to repel ladders!"

Swords slid from their sheaths with rasps of metal on leather, and halberds and spears raised themselves from rest as well. Khaok had requested almost a fifth of the army, but strangely he'd almost only wanted Orcs and Nords, leaving her with what almost felt like the chaff. Not that the men looked anything like it, of course, each well-fed and fit, clad in steel and iron, and with weapons on hand.

As if she'd commanded the Orlesians herself, moments later they had encroached so closely to the ramparts that no more runes remained to blow them apart. She could see them now, as could every archer upon the walls, and shots now became angled straight down, aimed at the men in blue tabards and silver-grey steel. The crossbows were the better at this, and could put their shots often through the open visors of the Orlesians at this short a distance, while the archers seemed less so capable.

Capable or not, they were forced back when ladder arose from the fog, shoved upwards with rapid speeds and great enough force that men who tried to prevent them with their halberds were themselves pushed back or staggered.

"ARCHERS CLEAR THE SPACE! SWORDSMEN, HALBADIERS, COUNTRYMEN, STAND FAST!" Cauthrien leapt to the ladder that had sprung up a meter to her left, and a gaze down revealed men already scaling them. Before she could work on hacking down the attackers, bolts and arrows lodged themselves in the wood of the palisade by her head, forcing her back behind cover; "DIRECT YOUR FIRE AT THEIR ARCHERS! SHOOT THEM! KILL THEM ALL!"

The irony was, she could vaguely hear similar orders being bellowed by the Orlesian general.

When the first soldier vaulted the palisade and came upon the battlements, she met him with a half-sword strike to the gut, piercing the chainmail in the gap underneath his breastplate. It did not kill him, of course, but she drove the point in deep enough that he fell to his knees, and she finished the job with an armored knee to his head, snapping his neck back.

All along the ramparts, the same scene played out with mostly similar results. The Legionaries were determined defenders, and held the advantage of solid ground beneath their feet. They bashed away the attackers with shields, maces, axes and swords, or forced them from their ladders entirely with the hooks and blades of their halberds. Even where the first Legionary was forced back or wounded, others took his place quickly enough that it did not matter, and dragged him away from the fighting.

It was hard to truly appreciate the war machine that was the Legion until you'd seen a man healing himself from an axe-strike to the side, then standing straight as if he'd never been wounded in the first place.

Meanwhile, Orlesian bodies were fast clogging up the ramparts, and it was making it harder and harder for the defenders to get to where they would vault from their ladders, in turn creating space for the Orlesians in their ornate armor to push through.

Cauthrien herself solved this by going for the legs, an area so woefully unprotected by Orlesian plate that it betrayed how unwont they were to such fighting. The Summer Sword cleaved through mail, weave and flesh and bone, hacking and slashing men apart through whatever gaps it could find, and she had the reach to ensure they could not strike back, and the sword's enchantments made it feel as if she wielded wood, not steel. Screams of pain were muffled when the source was behind a mask, making it somewhat easier for her to cut away with such abandon.

It felt less like killing people, and more like they were mere dolls or automatons.

Even if they screamed, flailed, bled and begged for mercy.

Cauthrien did not stop.

Not even as the rain poured, and blood washed across the boardwalk of the battlements in sheets of diluted red, soaking through the leather of her boots.

She did not stop, until the ramparts were stuffed with blue-clad bodies, and her sword had become blunted from striking steel and bone. Even the enchantments in the blade had only lasted so long when faced with such abusive overuse, and the tip had near rounded from the amount of times she'd stabbed it through whatever gaps she could find.

She only stopped, once there was no one left to kill, and the ramparts could be declared as held by her forces.

Tired and battered as they were, the men who had the breath for it cheered and hollered at the retreating Orlesians.

She did not join in those celebrations.

Even stacked as they were in places on the battlements, there were likely fewer than a couple of hundred Orlesian corpses, at most a thousand, abandoned by those with the ability to flee. She did not yet know how many they'd lost themselves, but even with the displays of restorative spells of the Legionaries, she was not so naively optimistic as to think they'd come away unscathed.

"Throw their bodies back over the wall, you men." The cheers stilled as she spoke; "That was just the first wave."

* * *

Malakath take the damn rain.

Legate Khaok stood behind the phalanx of pikes and swords, commanding and correcting where the need was. He was wet and miserable, and far too hot, encased in layers of protecting gambesons, vests and steel as he was.

He was all the time walking with his shield raised, and had by now almost begun to ignore the _thud_ whenever an arrow would strike the thick wood, or simply glance off when it on the rare occasion struck the reinforcing steel. His boots sank into the mud, just as the rear lines of the phalanx did with the butts of their spears.

If there was some consolation to the weather, it was that it probably gave the Orlesians just as much pain as it did his own forces. He could barely just seen them, ahead of the trenches and his soldiers, those Orlesians. They had propped up a makeshift wall of portable shields, halberds and spears in front of their archers and crossbows. It was evident that the shields were less so intended for the archers, and more so for the infantry before them. Orlais expected a cavalry charge, that much was clear, and hinted at their lack of proper reconnaissance. The Legion barely had a horse to go around, having not prepared a cavalry force when the Aviatorii could fill such roles, and there was little actual cavalry tradition among the Fereldan nobility.

Then again, he supposed he might have done the same, if faced with an unknown foe. And he wasn't going to complain, for the ground was already littered with the bodies of the Orlesian footmen, where either the artillery or evidently superior bows of the Legion had made their bites known. Even then, it was hard to argue that the odds were fair, for there seemed at least three archers on the side of Orlais for each of their own, and even if most arrows glanced harmlessly from the well-crafted plate of the Legionaries, those that still found their marks caused disruptions in the ranks as the wounded had to be hauled from the throngs and healed.

There were the cases where death was faster than those who could drag the wounded from the ranks, and he could already preside over a distasteful line of bodies, nearly a dozen already lined shoulder to shoulder on the ground. It was better than most skirmishes, of course, but then it did not seem Orlais had brought neither mages nor artillery to the fight.

He did not envy Constanta, for if Gaspard had not sent his mages here, it meant she was the one who'd have to face them in the Bannorns.

Either way, it was clear which side held the initiative here, and Orlais seemed intent on taking its time picking his men apart.

Sooner or later though, they had to run out of either arrows or archers.

And then the real fun would start.

* * *

 **Figured I might as well dedicate the chapter in its entirety to the first stages of the Battle of Gherlen's Pass. This is taking place simultaneously with the sacking of Amaranthine, so there's no danger of a time skip incoming, at least not for a while.**

 **Writing a battle is...difficult, to put it mildly. I'm doing the best I can at realistic portrayals at how these would usually proceed during the early-late medieval periods, but when the Legion is involved - mostly through fault of my own - we're also dealing with the armies and battle methods and tactics of the Late Roman Empire, which adds even more pieces to the puzzle.**

 **It also adds a LOT of research, which is mostly fun, but also takes a long time to get done. It's a strange mixture of books, Wikipedia, and putting Total War's Ai on hardest difficulty during a battle, and then trying out formations.**

 **Basically, the "standard" - if there could ever be such a thing - pitched battle in Europe during these times, would involve as little actual melee as either side could get away with. Skirmishing, especially by longbows and later crossbows, was favored as it at least allowed you to avoid exhausting your units, and you had the chance at breaking your enemy's morale and formations enough for a cavalry charge to finish it off.**  
 **Alternatively, infantry would rarely, if ever, charge at the foe over distances like we see in most movies. However, it's damn entertaining when they do, I'm not nagging on that.**  
 **The thing that really hadn't changed at all since before the Roman dominance of Europe was that the battle was more about routing the enemy, than killing them in the actual fighting. Chain routs are...well, what it says on the can, basically. Make one man panic and push his way back, and others might think him panicking for a good reason, and panic as well, and soon the whole damn army is in full flight because some Sergeant-at-arms shat himself at the sight of someone from his town being disemboweled.**  
 **10% of the casualties usually came from the actual fighting, while the rest was a mix of skirmishing casualties, infected wounds and being cut down during flight.**  
 **The army that can eliminate the "infected wounds" and just wounds in general, has a pretty damn substantial advantage.**

 **Also, I have to admit I'm kind of infatuated with the new Goblin Slayer show. Swap out 'Goblin' with 'Darkspawn' and it's basically Blackwall before he got picked up by the Inquisition. "Find goblins, kill them, repeat as necessary."**


	35. Those Spiky Little Things

**I won't lie, this chapter made me feel worse than when I shot Alistair in the gut...**

* * *

 **Those Spiky Little Things**

* * *

It was strange, how even in a city so suddenly wrought with chaos and death, there was a calm and quiet in the wake of Alma's declaration.

"The…the first." Talia stared at the creature held captive by the old woman, not really entirely sure _what_ it was, or what it was the first of; "First of what?"

"Of the smart Darkspawn." Alma shrugged, shifting her grasp on the beast; "The little shit's not exactly the brightest, but he's smarter than most of them."

"Not a tall bar." Cíada muttered, wiping caked blood from her boots onto one of the bodies; "Looks different than most of 'em."

"Oh, trust me, this one's about to take the cake." The old crone grinned, the leather of her inner gauntlets creaking as she tightened her grip; "Aren't you, Mommy's boy?"

"I am _not_ the Mother's!"

Talia was somewhat sure she'd gone insane, at least partially. She _had_ been keeping up on her blood intake, so damned if she knew _how_ , but she _had_ to have gone insane, considering she could have sworn the Darkspawn just _talked_. A glance about betrayed a similar reaction in the elf, eyes as wide as saucers.

"What."

"I am not the Mother's!" the beast repeated, and she almost dared to hope it had somehow just learned to repeat some random sentence, until it continued; "It is I who is betrayed! Bereft, I am who is cast aside. Vengeance, it will be mine. It would be mine, before this creature of old blood interfered!"

"You know..." Alma muttered, and Talia could hear bones breaking in the Darkspawn's arm; "It's not nice to comment on someone's age. Especially not a _lady's_ age."

The Darkspawn - _the First_ \- somehow had the ability to look confused at that, even as a bit of bone was starting to poke the putrid skin of his wrist.

"So...what's this... _thing_ then?" Cíada asked, and good thing too, for Talia was not really sure _what_ to ask, or how the fuck to even go about it in the face of a _talking_ Darkspawn. Had Morrigan still been around she might have glanced about for the witch's spells of voice-projection, and yet, there was no Morrigan.

But the old woman held her tongue, until the streets started filling with soldiers from the other quarters, and Talia saw Aedan making his way across the body-strewn cobblestones. His clothes were blackened with blood, and she didn't need to guess hard to know it was from Darkspawn, though at least there seemed to be no injuries beyond his sweat-mattered hair.

Ser Ava was easily enough recognizable, trailing after him as she made it a cause to break the skulls of every frozen Darkspawn she came past, as did the other Templar with him, the man who by process of elimination had to be Boris.

It was almost funny how she immediately recognized him, too.

"Goddamn fucking figures..." the man growled and pulled his mace from the shattered cranium of a frozen Hurlock. Apparently the frost only went in so deep, and liquefied brain seeped out of the cracks, along with the black puss and ichors she'd almost grown familiar with; "What the _hells_ even happened?"

"Ser Ava, Ser Boris." Cíada turned to greet them, even as she offered Aedan a deep nod, one he returned before turning his own attention to his wife, and then the old woman in armor at the centre of all the chaos; "You're both well?"

"Well enough, yes." Ser Ava sighed, keeping her pace up until she and Boris stood amongst them, eyes on the sole Darkspawn still drawing breath. Eyes that quickly shifted to Talia, something like understanding in that gaze; "...far be it from me to presume, but at this point I'll risk guessing _you_ did something beyond my understanding again, Warden Aulus?"

" _Oi_ , I didn't do this." Talia defended herself, though she wasn't entirely sure why. It's not like it'd be a _bad_ thing to be able to simply wipe out a few hundred Darkspawn with a snap of...no, wait, not a snap of her fingers. Alma had shouted something, hadn't she? _Hakkon? What exactly just happened?_

" _The Thu'um, Kiir."_ The old lizard snorted in the back of her mind, like it was whispering just below her ears; " _You should know this yourself now, your blood grants you such. She is like you, more so than you think."_

" _I can also hear you both, by the way."_ A new voice interrupted, forcing Talia to look up. Alma was staring right at her, a bored expression on what little of her face she could actually _see_ ; " _You're lucky Hakkon's just got us, or it'd be a real mess in here."_

The thought of a hundred voices within her mind was a horror in its own right.

"Well, this should be enough people that I don't have to repeat myself." Alma sighed, and threw the Darkspawn to the ground, planting a steel-clad boot on its chest. Talia doubted it could have escaped even if she hadn't, considering the odd angles she'd bent its arms and legs in. Some breaths were sucked in, others merely remained quiet in the face of the newcomer and the strange-looking Darkspawn; "Alright, if you'll all just shut up for a second, we'll have this over with."

Amusingly, almost, it seemed to take her a moment to realize that she'd not even needed to tell them the last part. Even Brelyna, now arrived and ragged of breath, did not say a word, though it seemed she was more perturbed at the sight of Alma, than the cursing Darkspawn she was using as a foot-stool.

Strangely, the beast's attention seemed to shift from the mage keeping it pinned to the ground, and instead settled on the Dunmer, beady eyes brimming with malice.

"Ashen thief! Ashen thi-!"

"So, you're probably wondering how it is that the Darkspawn got smart enough to dig under the walls, when there's no Archdemon leading them, yeah?" the old woman asked, voice loud enough that none could claim not to hear her. She poked the First with the butt of her glaive, bringing back its eyes onto her; "There's a lot of fuckery going on in the Arling, most of it sponsored by a mad scientist calling itself the 'Architect', and a crazed bitch he released on you called the 'Mother'."

If she'd expected outcries, Alma was disappointed, for no one really seemed like they knew what the hell to say. Talia just watched, and tried wrapping her mind around the still-impossible notion of _intelligent_ Darkspawn. Or, rather it was Darkspawn with sentience, rather than sheer animal cunning.

" _Betrayer_! She sent me to that marsh! She-"

There was, however, some mild flinching when she stomped down on the Darkspawn's throat, outright decapitating the creature with brute force.

"Now, short version, 'cause I really gotta get back to dealing with the Orlesians." She withdrew her boot and wiped it a little on the body's chest; "The Mother's a crazed Broodmother given back her mind, and then promptly went and fucking lost it when she realized two tits had become eight. She's the one directing the Darkspawn, even though _this_ guy thought _he_ was...funny how that stuff works, isn't it?"

"...and that Architect?" Aedan was the one to ask, his expression betraying an inner conflict at this reunion.

"It's up in the air, kinda" Alma shrugged; "Pretty sure he _is_ a Darkspawn though, and that he more or less deliberately kicked off the Blight. Tall, lean, dark...mysterious, all those things girls seem to adore these days." The grin on her face was not a comforting one; "So I figured, least you lot can do is go and take care of the source of the Darkspawn, while I go turn Gaspard's standing forces into forces that are lying down very still."

"Pardon that I ask, but...who are you addressing, exactly?" Ser Ava did not step forward, but Ser Boris did take half a step back, so it almost looked as if she had; "The Templars are too few in numbers to deal with a full-scale Darkspawn incursion, especially if they are as intelligent as this one."

"I was kinda banking on the Grey Wardens doing it, but all things considered there's just...what, five of them in Ferelden?"

"Four." Talia corrected her; "And Jowan isn't really in any shape to fight, so three at best, but we've no idea where Daveth or Sten are, so..." she spread her arms in something like resignation, because goddammit she hated the notion of having to be a Warden again; "So...it's really just us, then."

It reminded her of all the reasons the job _sucked_ , chief among them being that Aedan was going to succumb to the Taint if she couldn't find a cure for the damn thing. At least it was promising if Brelyna's Cure Disease actually had some preventive effects. If it could even cure those already tainted, it was _definitely_ a step in the right direction.

It just seemed too simple to be true, considering the taint was considering incurable, that a mere potion used against colds and fevers back home could be the thing to do the whole miserable affair in, once and for all. That, or she really _would_ have to give him Dragon blood, which raised all the worst kinds of risks. At best, it would make him something called a 'Reaver', which she didn't like at all considering the addictions to dragon blood it apparently caused.

"About that, actually." Alma cleared her throat; "Apparently a letter came for Jowan in Vigil's Keep... You've made him something of a secretary, have you?"

"Poor bastard..." Cíada muttered.

"He kind of did that himself, I think." Talia argued; "A letter?"

"Yeah, that Qunari friend of yours hasn't been sitting on his ass, much as I could definitely see him as the sort to just sit and brood." The old crone chuckled, a weird sound coming through the narrow visor; "He's found a few recruits for the Wardens, and put them through the Joining, all on his own, the big boy."

"...he... _Sten_ did?"

"Aww, he's taking responsibility." Brelyna cooed, which would have been a little unsettling in the current environment, if Talia hadn't spent the last nearly four years around her. Others, however, seemed less than enthusiastic; "...wonder if he's still running around half-naked. We _did_ more or less leave him behind in Redcliffe."

"...honestly I kinda though he'd picked up sticks and returned to where he came from." Aedan said.

"Yeah, me too..." Talia admitted, shaking her head before returning her attention to Alma; "So...how many Wardens are there now?"

"Four."

"Wait, that..." Brelyna paused, her smile wilting; "That means just one made it through?"

"Yeah...apparently one died when he...you know, Joined, and another chickened out, so Sten shanked him..." Alma hummed, and Talia worried because yeah, she could totally see Sten being the kind of...well, not man, but person to do that. Brute force was sort of his thing; "But hey, at least the one who did make it through is apparently a pretty good one, so... _yay_? Anyway, they're headed for Vigil's Keep because of all the Darkspawn fuckery that's been going on and... I've done what I came for. If you're up for it, find the Mother in that old graveyard for the dragons. It's somewhere along the Highway."

"And...you're going where?" Aedan asked.

"Hmm, 'bout now Gaspard's probably crossed the Dane, so I'm going to use my _overwhelming charisma_ to convince him to go home." The sweet smile on her face was made no less unsettling as she continued; "Failing that, I'll break every bone in his body, kill half his army and have the remaining half haul him home on a cart."

* * *

It had stopped raining.

Arrows, that was, not water. It was still pouring from the skies, and Khaok was at this point starting to argue with himself what he fucking hated more, Ferelden's weather or its neighbors. The Orlesians seemed to have expended their stocks of arrows and bolts, and now instead held the first line they'd established, while another, larger force marched forward behind them.

They'd bloodied the Orlesian's noses, certainly. The ground was dotted with the bodies of those slain by the Legion's archers. Far greater numbers were their dead than those of his own forces, something the Orc found some solace in, even as the line of bodies behind the trenches had grown. It was always a bother to lose men, but harder still when you were not defending Imperial soil, but rather the homelands of others.

"How many d'you think there are of them..." he muttered, addressing one of his seconds. The other Orc grunted, picking at his fangs whilst shielding his eyes from the rain with a raised hand.

"Infantry? Several thousand, easily. Most of them seem to be mostly brigandines or gambesons, not much steel plate far's I can see." Khaok frowned at those numbers, but knew that if the lines did not break, and they were not flanked, the Legion could hold against far greater still; "Problem's the cavalry. They're keepin' behind the ridge and I can't tell if it's the same ones riding around or new ones. Either way, there's a lot of the fuckers."

"Mmm." The Legate snorted and spat on the ground. He'd refrained from doing so around General Cauthrien, but here it felt appropriate; "They're probably going to try and break up the pikes enough to push their cavalry through, and focus their infantry on the trenches. Put halberds in the second line of the phalanx, and have the engineers pre-sight the trenches. One for each."

Tribunes were useful, like that. He'd heard the one up in the Anderfels got promoted to Legate, which was great for him, he supposed. Right now, it allowed Khaok to focus on the overall situation, and do his best t prepare for the Orlesian footmen who were, even now, coming into range of his archers.

And his archers had not yet depleted _their_ stores of ammunition, as made evident by the Hastatis running to and from the ridges with bundles of arrows under each arm. The camp was more than well supplied, and now he was digging into those supplies, for if not now, when?

It was, however, an annoyance to watch the Orlesians advancing under cover of their shields, so very similar to how Legionaries would have done it. Arrows soon enough covered their advance like the pricks on a porcupine, but only occasionally did one slip up and let his shield waver for long enough that an arrow would go through, and a body be left behind.

When he felt them close enough for misses to be unlikely, Khaok signaled the artillery with a wave of his hand. The first bolts flew before he'd let his arm drop again, punching through the front of the advancing shield wall. It almost seemed to break the advance then and there, but even that hole was patched, and now they were moving faster, having no doubt realized how little use their shields were. One or two bolts hit their shields at odd angles, glancing off like a skipped stone on still waters.

He could always hope they'd hit something further down the line.

With the enemy out of arrows, Khaok felt he could afford some degree of exposure, and thus stood amongst his own archers, taking in the scene.

They were closer now, the Orlesian infantry. A line as wide as their entire perimeter, and with ranks deep enough that he couldn't quite count them. They were quite finite, at least, in that he could see where their ranks ended, and thus perform crude calculations that landed the opposition in at least Legion strength. Dismaying numbers, yeah, but at the same time they would be worn from their pincer march, and his own forces were well enough entrenched. He could see their cavalry now, too, advancing on the flanks of their infantry, men encased wholly in plates of steel, on mounts equally so armored.

That spelled trouble, provided they were allowed to reach their lines. If he could rob them of the initiative, it'd be that much more likely that they'd simply charge, heedlessly and heedless of traps. It was not a smile that formed on his lips, but he was satisfied with himself all the same.

"Artillery, shift targets to their heavy cavalry!"

* * *

Charles was having a harder time than he'd like, keeping Chevauché steady and at a slow trot.

Up ahead, the foreigner's lines were now wholly apparent, just as it was that where their own skirmishers had run out of arrows to the point of depleting even those scavenged from the dead, their foe was rather more well stocked. He couldn't see if it had broken the enemy pike wall. Even now, hours after the skirmishes had started, they still retained arrows to rain over the forward infantry.

And though the arrows themselves had little chance at harming neither himself nor his mount, there was another cause for his unrest, one that made itself apparent with a few seconds of interval, at a pace so regular it felt more as if he was advancing towards a stamping mill, rather than an army.

The infantry advanced behind the cover of their shields, itself enough protection against arrows, but offered little but concealment for the individual against the bolt-throwers of the enemy. With shorter intervals than unstrained breathing, a fresh bolt would puncture the front of the advancing ranks, the brutality and power of the bolts betrayed by the bodies left behind as the men advanced.

He admired their bravery, even as he hoped they would remain the targets of the enemy artillery.

There was shouting from the enemy lines, not that such was a change. Whomever was in command possessed lungs of brass, no doubt. For a moment, the bolts stopped raining upon the commoners, and Charles allowed himself a breath of relief, that if nothing else at least they'd run out of those infernal bolts.

Then the first Chevalier was plucked from his mount, torn straight from the saddle as a bolt no longer than his sword punched through and struck in his breastplate, leaving the horse to trot around where it'd lost contact with its rider. There was barely even a scream, at least not from the man himself, though the Chevalier behind him received a body with enough force that it might as well have been the bolt itself striking his horse.

Charles nearly stopped Chevauché as well, and it wouldn't even have been a conscious decision on his part, such was the shock. Of course, it was to be expected that they as well would become targets, but to see a Chevalier in the finest plate known to man, simply torn away like a gnat from a horse's skin, it instilled a sense of fright in him he would not ever confess to. It only got worse as the bolts started flying about like angered birds, picking men from their horses, or simply the horses from underneath them, giving scant regards to the armor and plate they punctured.

"Horn bearers, sound the charge! Prepare to charge!" Duke Bernard shouted ahead of the formation, unfazed in posture at least as metal whizzed about him; "CHARGE!"

There was a strange...not elegance, but at the same time yes, just so, about the way in which the horns echoed over the army. Near eight thousand men set into motion, a rippling effect as those in the front took off into a jog, and those behind followed as soon as space was for it. Thousands of throats echoed the same warcry as they tore towards the foe, a wall of pikes and shields and stakes, and Charles could feel as fear gave way to adrenaline, and then to courage and righteous fury.

"CHARGE!" his own throat echoed the cry as he kicked Chevauché into a faster and faster trot, following the men at his sides until it was a full canter, just shy of outright galloping at the foe. His right arm couched his lance, and his left maintained its grip on his shield, trusting in the quality and deepness of his saddle to keep him seated through the charge; "CHARGE! CHARGE!"

In no time at all had the Chevaliers surpassed the infantry, and now Charles could see himself aimed at the center gap in the trenches, the one where most of the arrows had fallen. It did not mean the phalanx awaiting him looked in any way to be broken or wavering, but he put enough trust in the quality of his own and Chevauché's armor that he drove on all the same, the thundering of hooves and the thundering of his heart deafening out all else. He was not even in the front of the wedge they'd formed, but in the middle of it and so couldn't even have veered off had he wanted to. No, this was where his name would be forged, where he would strive for such deeds that the Emperor himself would come to hear of him. _Just you wait, Phillipe, I'll have tales of my own valor once we meet again!_

Charging a wall of pikes was always what peasants called 'a game of chicken'. The horse, no matter how well armored and trained, would not drive itself into a spiked death, and so it was always up to whether the nerves of the defenders would hold in the face of a thundering cavalry charge.

None, however, had ever stood up to the full might of the Emperor's Chevaliers once charging in full force.

No one really seemed to notice them in time, the little things in the dirt.

Barely the size of a clenched fist, and wrought of iron with four points, Charles didn't even see the caltrops covering the ground like weeds until suddenly horses screamed and fell around him, and Chevauché as well reared back and fell onto his side. The world spun, and brief glimpses of horrible black needles that stuck from his mount's hooves was all Charles could see before they crashed to the ground.

It was instincts more than anything that saved him from a crushed leg, and Charles rolled out of the way even as more and more of his comrades came charging in, their momentums far too great to halt in the face of the sudden, horrifying chaos.

The world was a mess, a hellish chaos of noisy and tremors as men and mounts collided with each other in desperate attempts to avoid the crash, and the shouts and screams of those who'd fallen, some crushed underneath their horses and others struck with simple terror. Charles scrambled to get back to Chevauché, already having trouble finding his friend amongst the screaming animals and men. Only the _blazon,_ his family's coat of arms marked on the armor allowed him to find his horse, even as arrows and bolts fell around him in a rain of death that, where it before had seemed harmless, now felt as if he wore no armor at all, and that even a single one could fell him.

The charge...he didn't even know if the charge had failed or if it was just their path that had been strewn with these infernal contraptions. Chevauché wasn't even kicking or screaming, simply lying there with his eyes wide and ears moving in every which way, frothing at the mouth whilst three of his legs stabbed at the skies as best they could.

Only one hoof had actually been spared the cruelty of these heathen dogs, though Charles barely even sensed such a blessing in the face of the anguish of his horse. Chevauché's ears stilled when he came close enough, and he willed himself not to let the tears flow as he saw the state of his beloved horse. The leg that had been spared the caltrops was instead bent at an odd enough angle that he knew it to be broken, and blood poured down the other three.

Charles heaved for air, panic and dread mounting within him, not for himself. He felt like hurling, but clenched his teeth and willed it down. If he could...if he could just...those spikes, if he could get them out, then...He had to. If he could just get them out. _This wasn't how it was supposed...Not like this! Not in this manner, oh Maker and Andraste, not like this!_

There was little mercy to be had from either, it seemed. The ground he knelt upon was already reddening, and it was just a glance at Chevauché's belly to know why, and to see so many of those cruel iron spikes protruding from his steed's body. Charles hurled right then and there, anguish and terror both welling up beyond his control.

The steed he had hand-raised since it was a foal died there in his trembling, bile covered hands, eyes wide with fear until they finally glazed over, and the red foam dried upon its lips. There was nothing he could do, but weep, head pressed against the still-warm flank of its neck.

There was nothing he could do.

* * *

Legate Khaok was somewhat torn on a certain matter.

On one hand, he could as well have burst out in laughter at the sight of how easily the Orlesian infantry lost their courage and their guts when the cavalry charge failed. They seemed to have fully expected their vaunted Chevaliers to carry the battle for them. Yet now thanks to the caltrops they found themselves near-alone in the battle, with Imperial pikes and swords awaiting them, and a stream of crossbow bolts that did not cease until they came so close to the trenches that the archers might have hit their own men. If they actually made it to the Legionaries, pikes and halberds awaited them.

The ones who'd attempted to storm them via the Highway, and those of them who made it across the caltrops and the bodies of the Chevaliers and their mounts, were met with the _Malakathii_ , heavily armed and armored units of Orcish warhammer-wielding warriors who crushed the staggered foes with scant notions of mercy.

A cuirass of steel was little defense against a warhammer swung with the force to break the bones of a mammoth.

Those who attempted storming the staked trenches, of course, were not given such mercies, and were felled in droves until they finally relented, unable to break through the makeshift palisades without lowering their shields, thus making them all the easier to strike down.

On the other hand, much as he took his own, Orcish delight in the crushing of enemy soldiers, service in the Legion had also instilled within him a certain sense of empathy. Some might call it a sense of humanity, but being decidedly not human, that wouldn't really work with him. When he saw the attackers withdrawing, he also saw those left behind before his own trenches, and within them. Wounded and maimed, some crawled in the mud to escape the Legion, whilst others flailed weakly in the muck, clutching where arrows or bolts had struck them, or a halberd had crushed bone.

Where the Chevaliers had ridden onto the caltrops, those who'd survived the chaos, yet failed to escape, now crawled around, climbing across their dead or dying horses. The weeping was the worst part, really, and a sound he wasn't used to on a battlefield. Cries of pain, definitely, those were as wont to him as the horns of war, but the cries of grief was a rare enough thing that he wasn't sure how to handle it.

But it made a knot form in his guts, all the same, the reminded that he wasn't merely killing enemy soldiers.

"...give the order to cease fire." He barely even mustered the will to grumble it to the tribune, receiving in kind only a silent salute; "And tell those Orlesians they can come get their dead. They'll stink up my trenches otherwise..."

"And the wounded ones?"

Khaok stared at the wounded and the dying, at grown men clutching arrows and Chevaliers who wept over their horses. Orcs were not terribly expressive, he knew that saying, but all the same he couldn't help the sigh.

"They can take their commoners too, the wounded ones. We'll take the Chevaliers hostage, get them healed up. The General said hostage-taking's a normal thing around here." His eyes stuck on one of the Chevaliers, pressing his head against the neck of his dead horse. Poor creature, really, belly full of caltrops from the fall. This was why Orcs didn't do cavalry, they'd too much respect for beasts to get them mixed up in their wars; "...might as well follow local customs."


	36. A Friendly Nudge

**A friendly nudge**

* * *

He was waiting for her on the Highway.

In hindsight, she'd known he would be. It would have actually been a greater surprise if the cat, draped up in cloaks and hoods to the point that only his posture gave him away, had not been there, leaning against one of the ancient marble pillars.

Alma came to a halt, the leather of her soles warming with friction as she slammed the brakes, neatly skidding to a halt in a manner that could be passed off as effortless and deliberate, rather than the last-minute stop it really was.

For a long moment, she simply regarded the cat, and he in turn her.

It had been a strange situation, and with strange she really meant beyond what she had the capacity to control or properly respond to. Much as she knew, in the back of her mind, that the mask had held sights of this, of the Khajiit of Winterhold awaiting her return. It had been her own attempts at distancing herself from its addicting visions that had led to this, and she knew there was really no one to blame but herself.

Well, herself and the damn cat, for having tracked her down in Highever.

Damn Khajiit, and damn their noses.

Finally, she relented. Both because of the awkward silence, but also because she really was kind of in a hurry. By now, Constanta had probably realized that Gaspard would already have made it across the Dane, and that the better place to intercept would be at the norther end of the Tarcaisne Ridge. There was a small town there, barely more than a village, but it straddled the best place to cross between the mountainous south, and the dense woodland of the north.

"Of all people..." she sighed, slowing to a walk. J'zargo, watched her quietly, eyes narrowed and sharp. He was a cat, so yeah, of course he'd been on his toes around her. Khajiit were like that, and she'd never met an exception to the rule. Of course, she'd personally made sure he'd trust her, at least somewhat; "...Well?"

"J'zargo does not know how you knew, but you knew." The cat muttered; "...there _were_ zealots amongst those who gave themselves up after the battle."

"Teyrna's safe, then?"

"Mmmhmm." The Khajiit nodded, pausing before he spoke again; "This one...still does not believe your claims, not all of them, at least. It is a wrongness he cannot comprehend."

She couldn't blame him, really. Sly, and smart as the cat-man was, he'd come to the right conclusion in the end, she could say that with absolute confidence. However, he'd need to do so on his own, with little prodding done by her beyond planting the seed.

It would be enough.

"The world's a weird place, cat." She hummed, and strangely he did so in turn, almost matching her own tune. It brought a small smile to her old, cracked lips; "I don't need you to believe, I just need you to get her to Kirkwall. Things are about to kick off over there, and she needs to be in the middle of it."

There was a long pause, and visible hesitation from the Khajiit. The cat cared about his friends, almost too much at times. She knew this, well enough that she could make the claim, and make plans that hinged on it.

"J'zargo does not like it..." the Khajiit sighed; "...but he will try."

"Good boy." There was a temptation to pet him, much as he'd probably try to claw off her face for the gesture: "The show's about to close in Ferelden anyway."

* * *

The world was a haze.

There was fabric above him, of some sort, as well as below. He could tell he no longer wore his armor, but had been stripped to the shirt and hoses he wore underneath the gambeson and chausers. His right leg felt swollen and sore, and ached with a slightly pulsating feeling.

The linen was rough to the touch, and he could guess it was the bed meant for wounded soldiers, even before his hearing resumed its working, and he could tell the groans of other men - and strangely a few women - around him.

A field hospital.

He wasn't even aware they'd had time to set one such up, though Duke Bernard was nothing if not an experienced campaigner. He'd of course known of the importance of a place to treat the wounded, even on such a speedy mission. And...and now he remembered.

Charles felt his body clenching at the reminder, of what he had lost. His insides churned and ached and pained him, his throat sore and burning with bile and grief. His skull itched and his skin burned, rage and grief and agony and sorrow and...and so much else, burning through his veins like boiling poison.

Chevauché, his steed and mount and friend, his companion on every campaign and in every battle and joust and skirmish, slain by something as nefarious and lowly as caltrops, the arms of the cowards and those who lacked spine to face his wrath. The agony in its eyes, that anyone could visit such pain upon it, the complete lack of understanding, as to whatever in the Maker's name it had done to deserve such an end.

He could still see it, even with open eyes.

The fear, the pain, the confusion and terror as blood spilled from every open wound. It had as well been his own as Chevauché's, and a part of him wished it had only been his own. It was not a desire for death, but simply the knowledge that men healed far easier than horses.

He had to find the Duke, and report that he was still fit for duty. Even if he could no longer ride, he could at least still serve as well as any footman, and better still for his rage.

Charles made to sit, only then to find that a heavy, iron manacle rattled against the skin of his right arm, and a chain attached thereto tied it to the cot he was on. He stared, uncertain of what was going on, fright taking hold. There was a thick bundle of wraps around his right leg, and his right side, tied tightly and colored dark.

Had he been wounded?

With all the chaos and the grief, he'd not even noticed.

"That's the last of them, then." He heard a voice off to the side, the accent unfamiliar and yet it rang a bell, in the back of his mind.

He snapped about, cold dread settling with disbelief in his guts at the garb of the field surgeon watching him with vague interest, and little more. A muted red and white pattern spread across a hooded robe, with a leathery apron at the front, spattered with specks of blood.

"Where am I?"

Of course, he could guess at that himself, but asked all the same. His voice came out raw and rough, thick with grief and anger that still sat deep within him. The garb of the surgeon and the accents, and the fact that he was shackled...he was a prisoner, to whom he did not yet know for certain.

The Fereldans?

The heathens?

"You are in the Legion's camp, more specifically the medicae tent." The man replied, his face a passive mask; "And yes, as the shackles indicate, you are a prisoner. As are the rest of the Chevaliers who were left behind by your retreating forces."

Charles could not speak, he knew not what to say to such a statement, delivered with such disinterest. He was a _Chevalier_ , by the Maker, not a common foot soldier. Was it not enough that they had robbed him of his companion, now they meant to humiliate him as well?

"You should be thankful to those Legionaries, really." The garbed man drabbled on, his voice betraying hos little he cared for gratitude; "We'd have thrown you in a cage, you and the rest of the Chevaliers, left you in rags and fed you porridge, at best. Apparently _they_ have some sort of code of conduct for prisoners of war, which is why you're still wearing most of your clothes, and lying in a bed."

"...you're Fereldan."

"Brilliant observation, yes." The man nodded, eyes more on the tent's ceiling than on Charles; "It might surprise you that there's some of us who actually survived the Blight, for all the help we got from you lot." He snorted, the surgeon that was; "Can't believe Mac Tir was bloody right about your kind, promises of aid and shit, and when it comes down to it, you just fuckin' up and tear those promises apart."

Charles didn't have the energy to argue, and really didn't feel like it either. Whether or not they'd been deployed to Ferelden had never been his decision, and so he simply hadn't cared one way or the other. Besides, ending the civil war had felt closer to home. It _was_ closer to home.

"And now, as if it wasn't enough that you left us to rot, the moment we get help from some fuckin' strangers who throw themselves at the Darkspawn for our sakes, you lose your shit and declare total war." The surgeon's voice had picked up now, just enough that his agitation was clear. Charles sighed and stared at the ceiling, knowing he wasn't going to escape the ranting.

At least, he wasn't thrown into some muddy cage, or tortured for information. Apparently he had the so-called 'Legionaries' to thank for that, much as the notion left him with a bitter taste of irony. He'd lost Chevauché to the Legionaries, and he'd rather have kept his horse and gone through the torture himself.

It wouldn't have been anywhere near this painful.

"I mean, Maker's fuckin' _Arse_ , who the fuck you lot think you are?"

"Hans, calm it down." Another surgeon approached, dressed in the same way as the one Charles had woken up to. The first one, Hans, stilled on the spot, meaning the newcomer was of higher rank, even if there was nothing visibly to betray such. Charles watched him with interest, the newcomer, trying to discern the change of events; "There's other wounded need your help, go see to 'em instead of pesterin' the prisoners."

 _"Ser."_

Charles watched 'Hans' take off out of the corner of his eye, but kept his attention on the newcomer through it. There really _was_ nothing he could see to tell the man's uniform apart from that of the other one's, which did little for his mood. He was plain looking as well, smooth face and bare of wrinkles, stubs or anything else, like a mask of wax.

"Welcome back to the living, Chevalier." The voice was pleasant, far too much so for the situation as it was. Charles frowned, distrusting him on sheer principle. No captor was ever pleasant unless they wanted information, or prepared him for torture; "How's the patient?"

"...patient?"

"Well, you were wounded during what we're guessing was the fall. Landed on some caltrops hard enough to go through the plate." The new surgeon shrugged; "Bleeding was bad, but we got it staunched. Maker's blessing that pretty much every one of those Legionaries is a healer."

Charles stared, mostly because the statement was a bizarre one. He'd seen no healers in that army, only soldiers clad in steel, pikes and swords.

"I see." He said instead, unwilling to betray his own confusion; "You're Fereldan as well, then?"

"Highever, born and raised." The surgeon nodded; "Which is why I'm not quite so cross as Hans. He's from Portsmouth, you see, first victim to that infernal fleet of yours."

Infernal fleet? Charles felt his temper flare, just a little. Much as he could understand how one might curse and swear at the Chantry in a time like this, it _was_ the Exalted Fleet. Even if the Emperor seemed...reluctant to cooperate with the Divine - and he could respect the reason - it was all the same the Divine's fleet.

"The _Exalted_ Fleet." He corrected under his breath; "Should you then not be as angered, considering Highever as well must by now be a smoking heap? Last I heard, that was where the fleet was headed."

"Oh..."

There was no dread nor anxiety in the man's voice, rather...it was surprise, maybe even mild bemusement. It did not do much for Charles' own mood, that such was the reaction. And now, even more so than before, the smile remained on the surgeon's face.

"What is it?"

"You've not heard, then?" the Fereldan asked, his smile creeping just a little wider, unsettlingly so; "I mean, I suppose...in war like this, it can be hard to get reports, but...heh..."

Charles held his tongue, mind now wracked with thoughts and guesses and treasonous notions, for what could such levity in the face of the Exalted Fleet mean?

"The Fleet's gone." The surgeon grinned, throwing out his arms; "Gone. Destroyed. Smashed to splinters and cinders by the Maker himself."

Charles stared, eyes wide enough for long enough that he could feel them dry. And still, he stared, uncertain of what to make of the man's words, clear though they had been. They simply were senseless, thoroughly so even.

The _Maker_ had destroyed the Fleet?

"A Herald of the Maker, what the Imperials call a 'Tongue', called down a storm on the fleet as it attacked Highever. It's all gone, smashed and sunken."

"That...this cannot be, it's spell-work, not of the Maker!"

"Then why didn't the Maker stop it?" the surgeon grinned, holding up a necklace.

On it were two small pendants, one a small, golden sun. The Sunburst, Charles recognized it in the blink of an eye. It was the other medallion that made his guts coil. It was a stylized dragon, its wings folded up on ether side as if to form a spear, and in the center it seemed about to bite down upon a sword.

It was a heretical symbol, of foreign gods and worse.

"Whether or not the Maker himself wrought the storm, he allowed it to destroy the fleet. So much for your 'Divine mandate', Chevalier. But if the Maker truly _is_ with the Chantry, that begs the question... _whose god is stronger?_ "

Charles could not speak. It had to be lies and falsehoods, likely the man was not even _from_ Highever, and just sent to torment him in this way. The Exalted Fleet was sanctioned by the Divine herself, called by the Divine herself, and ordered by the Divine herself.

The Maker would never allow for such to happen.

"Oh, but that's not even the best part." The surgeon's grin spread to a toothy smile, eyes bright with amusement at Charles's disbelief. His voice became a conspiratorial whisper; "It's gone through the grapevine, apparently there's a whole fresh new Legion invading Orlais from the north."

Again, Charles could not bring a word over his lips. The madman above him, now leaning over the bed, grinned and rolled on his heels. He'd have plunged a dagger in him already, had he been armed. Instead he was shackled, and at the enemy's mercy.

"Ferelden's done being your dog to kick around as you please, Orlesian." The surgeon stood again, straightening his apron; "It's a new age, and power is no longer yours alone."

Then he turned and walked away, and Charles was left to stare at the air he'd just previously occupied, mind torn and wrought.

What was going on?

* * *

She found them rather easily.

The road was really the only route they could take, she knew, and that meant all she had to do, was to walk along it, and pay attention to the sounds of nature. Or, in this case, more akin to the sounds of rutting animals.

Night had long-since fallen, and she walked guided only by the fact that darkness didn't really bother her. like, at all. Once, many, many years ago she might have been troubled by the starless, moonless night. Lost days, really, so long gone it felt more akin to a dream than a memory.

She left the highway once the sound was loud enough that she felt she could pinpoint it without too much difficulty. The repeated, soft slaps of flesh on flesh, she knew the sounds well enough. In the distance, between the trees, she could make out the flickering light of a campfire.

A swift stomp took her to the upper branches of an old oak, her landing site so thick and solid it barely even budged when she touched down. Still, she grabbed hold of the trunk itself, just to be sure. Being capable of routing an army on her own did not mean her body would appreciate a fall from this height.

From her new vantage point, however, she did have a rather brilliant view of the ongoings by the campfire.

There was always something strange about this particular couple. Even if she'd never really found out how it ended with them, she had to admit the very notion was an intriguing one. The funny thing was, it was always this one Chevalier, the very same who'd stabbed her on the bridge, and always the one Gaspard sent on this little mission of espionage.

If Fate had something special in store for him, she didn't know of it.

The current scene was one of the Chevalier and an elf, the two parties in Orlais that absolutely should not be caught dead together. Nude as they'd been born, he was pressing her up against a tree, their sweating bodies glistening in the lights of the dancing fires. There was definite tenderness there, more so than one would find from a merely casual, or carnal rutting.

She watched them until they were done, all things considered it'd be rude to interrupt.

"Nice night for a stroll in the woods, isn't it?"

Her call made both the Chevalier and the elf fall flat on their asses, even as they'd been in the process of getting dressed once more. The result, to see a vaunted Chevalier falling on his ass with his breeches halfway up around his ass, never really failed to be hilarious. She took advantage of that shock too, and emphasized on it by jumping from her branch, landing on the outskirts of their little camp with all the grace of a cat, but the weight of a boulder.

She wondered if the display was enough to trigger recognition in the Chevalier.

* * *

Phillipe recognized the intruder.

Oh, he definitely did recognize her, both for the appearance she retained, clad in steel and plate with that glaive in hand, as well as he recognized the voice. There was too much confidence, too much power in even the simplest of words spoken by that demon for him to ever forget their encounter on the bridge across the marsh.

It was not a reunion he wanted in his current state of dress, if at all.

"Who the fuck-" Illia swore as she rolled to her feet next to him, hardly in a better position than himself. He'd spent himself inside her, and the results were evident. More so than was...well, was anything really _proper_ in this situation? "Who the fuck are you?!"

" _Illia_." He barely raised his voice above a whisper. It was a struggle, merely keeping it under control; " _Run_. Run as fast as you can."

"What?" the elven woman turned towards him, eyes previously filled with lust now instead exuding confusion and mounting fear. Even now, the demon approached, its gait nonchalant and confident. And he knew it had every right; "What do you mean 'run'?"

"Yeah, what _do_ you mean 'Run'?" the demon paused at the edge of the reach of their campfire's light, the shadows dancing across the foreign suit of armor. He couldn't see the face within the visor, not in the dim light cast by the fire; "Honestly, is that any way of greeting an old friend? Peace, _Chevalier_ , I am not here to break your bones."

Phillipe stared at the demonic figure, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was about to break free and make its own escape. He could barely even find time in his fright to consider how the demon knew what he was, and likely knew what Illia was as well.

"Who are you." Illia spoke again, a long, translucent blade appearing in her hand. Phillipe's eyes were drawn to this as well, uncertain how to react to anything that was going on. First, the demon from the marsh appeared and spoke of peace, and now he suddenly found out Illia was...what, a Knight-Enchanter? It was a shock, though nowhere near as great as the first; "Speak, before I show you how little that armor will guard you."

"Cute." The demon scoffed, shouldering the glaive; "Armor's mostly for show, girl. You'd have no chance of wounding me even were I nude."

"You fell easily enough to one spear, though." Phillipe found it was himself who spoke, and wished he hadn't. At the same time, anything he did might take the intruder's attention off Illia, a worthy goal in itself; "...though I see even a goring does not stop you for long."

"Yeah, that _was_ a real pain in the ass." The demon paused, as if expecting snickers or chuckles from its glibness. Neither Phillipe nor Illia were in the mood for such, however. He stepped just a little closer to her, making sure the mage was behind him, just in case. He could better take a blow than her, anyways, and it'd give her a chance to strike, should it come to violence. The demon sighed; "Tough crowd, huh?"

"Who are you?" Illia repeated. Being the only one of them currently _armed_ , she seemed to have recovered some confidence; "What do you want?"

"You know, I _did_ introduce myself at the bridge..."

"As a Fereldan knight, yes." Phillipe rebuked her; "You're no such thing."

"Actually I _am_ , knighted by King Maric himself after he threw you out of Ferelden." Phillipe blinked at the claim, realizing how old that'd make their foe. Near her fifties, at the very least, and yet still with a power unmatched by any he'd yet seen; "I do have a _lot_ of names, though. Demon, Nan, Storm-caller, Tongue, Spirit of the River Dane...You can call me 'Alma', if you'd like. Simpler, I think."

"... _Nan_?"

"We all need a hobby." 'Alma' shrugged; "Anyway, I'm perfectly well aware of your mission, and how you report to Gaspard. Normally, I'd have executed you both as spies on the spot, but all things considered, I'm feeling _pretty_ merciful these days. Plus, I get my share of killing done clearing out Darkspawn and necromancers anyway."

"...so, you know." Illia asked, her hands lowered by the blade of energy not extinguished.

"I know a _lot_ of things, girl." 'Alma' hummed; "Among those, yes, that you are spies sent by Gaspard to report on troop numbers and resistance inland as he crosses the Dane with the rest of his army. I also know the cause for his haste, and why he couldn't dedicate the whole of his forces to fighting the Legion in Gherlen's Pass."

"The Exalted Fleet." The elf said, her voice low enough that Phillipe wondered if it was meant to be whispered only to him. Nonetheless, the crone nodded; "If you know why our Emperor makes such haste, why would you stop him from reaching Denerim before the Chantry? Surely, you must understand that Denerim cannot hold against either, and Ferelden does not have a fleet that could stop the Exalted March."

"Nope, you're definitely right that Ferelden doesn't have a fleet capable of meeting the Chantry's warships and win." 'Alma nodded, and shrugged; "Luckily, I'm plenty versatile. Storm-caller's my newest title, one I got in Highever not all that long ago."

Phillipe felt his guts churn.

"I'm something of an upholder of balance, you see. The Chantry's fleet was upsetting that balance, so I removed it." He could make out a grin, teeth far too white for her age within that visor, even as she spoke; "I will not tolerate this incursion upon Fereldan soil, and were it not for the Darkspawn, I'd have removed Gaspard's little band of misfits already. So, I'm going to give you two a chance to become great big heroes of Orlais."

The woods had gone silent now, as if the very animals were paying rapt attention. Even the campfire itself seemed to have quieted down, even if its flames still flickered and danced as brightly as before. Phillipe found he was holding his breath, and glanced to Illia, only suddenly now remembering that both of them were yet in the nude.

Somehow, it had slipped his mind.

"What do you mean?" he asked, body tense and ready for...he wasn't entirely sure anymore.

"I'm heading west to meet Gaspard before he reaches the Tarcaisne. If he's still marching for Denerim when I find him, I'll remove both him and his army, in a very permanent and violent manner." The chuckle at the end of her words did nothing to help his nerves; "You can save him by reporting that I'm on my way and that he'd better turn his ass around before I turn it inside out."

"But you-"

"Oh, and you'd better report it straight away." Alma hummed, even as she started walking away, towards the Highway, and towards the east; "I'm pretty fast for an old crone."

* * *

 **Apparently, Alma doesn't get the notion of privacy...**


	37. Gherlen's Destruction

_War begun, Gaspard has come_  
 _From morn to night, Laciia falling_  
 _Overrun, but never outdone_  
 _No matter the feat, denying defeat_

 _Fereldans and proud Legionaries_  
 _keep your heads held high_  
 _Overrun, you fall one by one_  
 _For the Mandate and for Denerim_

 _Soldiers, heroes, die for your land  
Your lives are gone, as you slay your fellow man_

 _Until your last dying breath_

 _Overrun, you're almost undone  
From morn to night, there's fire falling  
Sound the drum, Orlais has come  
Show no fear, the ending is near_

 _A final charge, to face down Orlais  
falling one by one  
Cauthrien calls, the defenses fall  
Gherlen's Pass is stained by blood_

 _In haste, our lives are erased  
Forward to glory for crown and country_

 _Defend, the honour of Ferelden  
Forward to glory, to face your fate at last_

 _\- Fall of Gherlen, Solleret_

* * *

 **Gherlen's Destruction**

* * *

The second Orlesian attack happened much less clandestinely so than the first, but at the same time, also far more violently.

The fog still permeated the Pass ahead, protecting all within it from the eyes of the defenders. Cauthrien had by now grown used to this, much as the very fact had her tearing hairs from her head, and one hand always on the pommel of her sword.

They had no way of knowing when or where or how Orlais would attack, only that they hadn't for several hours now, and as morning was approaching them, she'd lost what little hope remained that a torchlight in the distance might give away Orlesian movements. But there'd been nothing, and she'd spent the night without a glimpse of her bed, and what little sleep she'd had was against the battlements, the Summer Sword cradled in her right hand, with the whetting stone in the left.

A horn blew.

Another, further down the line, echoed it.

Cauthrien stood, shaking off the cold of the night. All around her, the men straightened where they stood, some sleeping against the battlements as she had, others looking like they'd been about to fall asleep against their weapons, or simply bored out of their minds. The crews of their siege engines slept by, around and in some cases underneath their machines, and as they roused they checked the conditions of their charges, reloading and tightening straps.

Considering the tension, a mighty feat indeed. Cauthrien turned towards the Pass, and peered out in the beyond. Something struck her as odd, though for the life of her, the sorry state of a mess that was her mind demanded several long, drawn-out moments before it finally processed the view.

The fog was gone.

It was almost strange, she'd expected the fields between them and the Orlesian camps to be littered with dead, but somehow, there was not a single body in sight. Had Orlais really managed to gather up their dead in such secrecy that they'd not made a sound?

"A rider approaching!"

The call came from the hills to the south, though she had already seen the horse, and the man upon it, as well as the white banner he carried. An envoy then, trusting that they would respect the sign of peaceful intentions.

She was half tempted not to. There was a ballistae not eight meters to her left. She could give the order discreetly, and have the messenger plucked from his horse out of sheer spite for his master's whip.

All the same, she knew not to. There were few rules of warfare that all respected, even the Qunari and the Dalish. That the messengers between forces were not to be harmed under the banner of truce, was one such rule.

"Halt!" she called out across the expanse; "That's far enough, Orlesian! State your master's business and be gone."

The rider did not immediately stop, though it seemed he'd at least realized he was being addressed, and slowed his mount to a slow trot before finally coming to a halt, just within what she would wager a bow could reach.

"I speak for Gaspard, Emperor of Orlais and rightful ruler of the Dales and Ferelden. Protector of the True Faith, and Uplifter of the common folk!" There it was again, the talk of uplifting. Ironic, given that it was hardly the most uplifting of propaganda, but then again she wasn't Orlesian, so what did she care? "I would bring a message from his Excellency, in the hope that you would listen. Is General Cauthrien present upon your walls?"

Cauthrien glanced about, not blind to the men placing bolts in their crossbows.

"I am here, Orlesian!" She stepped up, making sure that he could see her from below.

"His Excellency, the most merciful and gracious Emperor, has granted General Jean-Orleis LaRue authority to once more extend towards you the option of honorable surrender." Cauthrien snorted, and a few of the men around her laughed. They'd had little trouble sweeping away the good general's attempts so far. This smelled of desperation; "You have fought nobly, and with great courage and élan, even for outsiders, apostates and heathens. Lay down your arms, and your lives will be spared, your rights ensured and your property retained as subjects of the most noble and merciful Gaspard de Chalons."

"And what if we refuse?" she called back, electing chuckles around her; "What then, oh you masked molester of goats and cattle?"

"Should you foolishly refuse this offer of mercy, then the Empire of Orlais will have no choice but to unleash upon your its full might, and sweep aside both you and your walls. There will be no respite, and you would die in vain where else you might have lived and come to terms with the Emperor's generosity! Now, please in the name of common sense, throw down your arms, Fereldans!"

In a contrast to the messenger's demands, Cauthrien could see and hear the men's grasps on their weapons tighten around her. Fereldans or Imperials, they were not yet keen on surrender.

"Tell your general, that he can come and take them!"

Silence followed her declaration, with the only sign that the messenger had heard her being that he turned his mount and rode off, his departure somewhat less elegant than his arrival. Cauthrien frowned, more than well enough aware that Orlais would not be called on its bluff. Now that it was made, it was not unthinkable that they would simply drown the Pass in bodies until her forces were overcome, or scale the cliffs on either side, and give damned in the suicide the latter would be.

Cauthrien watched him disappear over the ridge.

"Get the rest of the Legion on its feet, and a message to Legate Khaok." She said to one of the nearby Tribunes; "I've a bad feeling we're about to have company."

"General." The man nodded, and just as quickly went about delegating her orders to those of lower ranks.

She remained where she was, eyes on the horizon. What was Orlais planning that would somehow sweep them away? She knew they had no mages like the Imperials' Aviatorii, and they had made sure to destroy their artillery in the air raids, hadn't they?

What else, then, could Gaspard throw at them that he hadn't already tried?

The answer came a few hours later, as the sun was reaching its zenith in the skies above them. Warm spring winds rushed through the valley, bringing with them the scents of flowers and woodlands. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and allowed herself the reprieve to take in the scents.

There was something else in the air too.

The winds blew in from the northwest, from where Orlais was prepared to make another onslaught against them. There was a scent in the air, something quite apart from the rest. She frowned, opening her eyes and scrounged up her nose. It wasn't a smell she was familiar with, but she was sure it was not of neither woodland nor field.

"INCOMING!"

The shout alerted her, and she looked to the skies for the source of alarm. There, like a javelin hurled by a giant, dragging a tail of fire behind it. She'd never seen such a spear before, and could not immediately understand how Orlais could even launch such without their vaunted ballistae.

Her mind then, treasonous and loyal both, went to the reports from Portsmouth and from Highever. The Chantry ships had launched fiery spears that exploded with fragments of metal shard and Antivan fire upon the port. And the scream betrayed it, the sound like a tortured bird as it soared through the air.

She ducked behind the battlements, awaiting its impact and explosion.

Almost as if to make a mockery of her caution, the missile flew well overhead and landed in the trampled grass between the wall and the camp. There it buried itself well beyond the tip, and left just its rear end sticking out of the ground, smoking and sparking.

Cauthrien sighed. Even if Orlais had some new method of launching their missiles like so, at least they-

The missile ruptured and exploded where it had landed, showering everything and everyone in its immediate vicinity with metal shards and liquid fire. For a moment, she could only stare as dozens of Legionaries on their way from the camp to the wall were engulfed in fire, or shredded through their armor by bits of metal no larger than arrowheads.

They were thrown to the ground, maimed and bleeding or dead entirely, or to panic and scream as the flesh was scorched from their bodies and the skin fell away.

The skies screamed louder still than the men, and Cauthrien looked upwards and outwards. No longer did the winds bear warmth and the scents of flowers. Instead, it was the screaming of birds as dozens of such missiles dragged their tails of fire through the skies, making out arcs of fire and smoke that would end upon the Legion's position.

It was suddenly very, very much apparent, that the wall was no longer a tenable position.

"BACK! BACK! BACK!" she yelled; "BACK TO THE CAMP!"

* * *

Legate Khaok perked up as explosions began rocking the Pass.

Several men around him did the same, turning to the source of the chaotic noise. His blood chilled at the screams and wails, far too close to be from the Orlesians. As if escaping the Pass, a messenger rode towards him, wild-eyed and with a sheen of sweat on his face.

"What's going on up there?!" the Orc demanded; "Speak, damn you!"

"The- the Orlesians, they've...they're bombarding the forti- the fortifications!" the man gasped, not even off his horse, though he seemed ready to drop from sheer shock; "The walls won't hold, the General's ordered a full retreat from the general area!"

"She's what?" Khaok stared at the man, wanting his words to be those of a madman; "Damn it all, what the fuck..."

The Orc realized with a start that the messenger was waiting on his own word, and bared his fangs in frustration. Damn it all to the depths of whatever Daedra's plane was messing with them. Dagon could take the whole thing for all he cared, and the Orlesians hadn't exactly been quiet on his own side of the fighting.

He'd run out of Ballistae bolts and spent all his caltrops, far sooner than the Orlesians had run out of their Chevaliers or heavy infantry. It was going to be the slow grind of the melee from here on out.

"What should I tell her from you, Ser?"

"Tell her to not get her damn head blown off." He barked; "If the wall's untenable, not much to do but wait till the bombardment stops, and then meet the shits head-on when they're closing in. I'll send the Malakathii back with you, but I need the rest here to hold off Orlais."

"Yes Ser."

Khaok shook his head, grumbling and growling as the messenger took off. A nearby tribune had paid enough attention that he at least didn't have to find someone himself to get the Malakathii moving. They were better against infantry anyway, Cauthrien might as well get them.

"Legate!" he turned when shouts came from the front; "Here they come again!"

* * *

The bombardment lasted well into the early evening.

Cauthrien had managed to get the walls emptied, even if under the somewhat stressful conditions of being subjected to unrelenting barrages of whatever the damned hells the Orlesians would call their new toys. They definitely knew how to use them, which meant this wasn't the field test.

Now, they were subjected to a different kind of torment all together, that of anxious, fretful uselessness. Cauthrien hadn't experienced this kind of warfare before, where you could only sit back and wait for the foe to be done expending his ammunition on your defenses. It was a strange, and grueling kind of warfare, and she cared not at all for it.

The explosions, rocking and pummeling the ground as they were, no longer made her wince or jolt when striking a little too close to the fortified camp. The mages had spent the hours well enough, she supposed, and raised earthen walls in front of the camp that had only previously had what could generously be called a stockade. It stopped fragments and fire from actually hitting the camp, unless the missiles went over and actually hit _inside_ the camp.

"What the Hells is this even..." her eyes were dry, hurting and irritated from the dust kicked up by the ceaseless pounding. The landscape between the camp and the ramparts already seemed more akin to something from the Fade, rather than Ferelden. Craters beyond counting, and all the land was scorched and riddled with shards of metal. Puddles of softly glowing goo betrayed where an explosion had spread Lyrium dust as well as fire, nestled in the bottoms of the craters they formed; "Gaspard has gone mad, to think up such a weapon..."

"Madness and brilliance really are just two sides of the damn coin..." the Tribune under her muttered with something between disgust and silent appreciation. She'd yet to learn his name when all she needed to shout was his rank. Considering she'd seen him carrying maimed soldiers from the walls, maybe she ought to; "Reports from Portsmouth and Highever are a lot like these things."

"...do we know what they are? "

"We've no idea what the Orlesians call them, but...the Redguards in Tamriel sometimes celebrate festivities by shooting similar things into the skies, loaded with black powder and different metals..." one off the explosions struck close enough that it rattled her teeth, and made the man pause; "...supposedly it's a sight to behold."

"I'll bet."

"Redguards call them 'sarukhs'..." the Tribune glanced at the fiery displays of death just beyond the ramparts of the camp. Cauthrien too, looked at it once more. To think they'd occupied those positions just this morning; "In Colovian that'd be _Erucae_ , I believe..."

"Does that translate?"

"Roughly." He admitted; "Merchants from Hammerfell trying to sell them in the Imperial City often call them fireworks, or fire-lances, _Lancia Ignis_..."

Cauthrien paused, tracking one of the missiles as it streaked through the air before plummeting into the churned soils right behind the actual walls. Fire and shrapnel bellowed out, setting alight and scorching whatever wasn't already charred and ruined. A lance of fire indeed, even if it did nothing to account for the otherworldly screaming.

"...I can see that." She muttered; "...but, no one here in Thedas knows of your black powders. How are these made?"

"I couldn't tell..." He shrugged, but paused as it looked like he was about to speak again. A frown marred the man's face, and really he looked not that much older than herself, too young for wrinkles just yet, though covered in soot and blood it was hard to tell; "...listen."

She did, though at first she was uncertain what he wanted her to hear. Cauthrien's face scrounged a little as she frowned, trying to pick out what small or vague sound the Tribune was hearing.

That was when it struck her.

"There's nothing."

"No explosions." The Tribune noted, eyes shifting to the skies, as she her own. There was nothing in the skies either; "They've stopped shooting."

Cauthrien breathed. No matter the madness behind Gaspard's machines, an end to such a bombardment could only mean one thing, and she was not so optimistic that she would think it the Orlesians wanting to offer a truce.

The camp and the wall were at most a hundred paces apart. She could easily see the wall, and what little remained of it after a day of such violence from the skies.

The towers were gone, as were the battlements and every piece of siege engine they'd been forced to abandon. The gatehouse was little but a twisted, burning wreck, the iron portcullis smashed to bits and wrought apart. What had not been wrecked and blown apart by the explosions, was yet still aflame, and quickly succumbing to it.

There was almost nothing left that could by any means be called a wall.

"Orlais will come now, I think." The Tribune echoed her thoughts well enough. It seemed to be a thing Imperials did; "Orders, General?"

She did not speak, not immediately.

For a few moments, Cauthrien could but stare at the ruins of their fortifications, quietly amazed Orlais had managed to bring such destruction to the field, and that somehow, the Imperial mages had missed such artillery.

"...sound for readiness." She finally said; "Get the men on their feet. I want Khaok's Malakathii in the front, swords and halberds right behind them. Send the archers to flanks to join the rest and support the fight from there. No shooting until we're engaged. Better to let them think we've retreated entirely."

"General."

The Tribune saluted and took off, already yelling orders before she'd managed a new breath. Cauthrien steadied herself, realizing that her hands were shaking until she wrapped them around the handle and pommel of the Summer Sword. No doubt, she was stretching the skin white underneath her gauntlets, for none but her to know.

Had she attempted to hold the wall, how many hundreds of lives would have been lost to that barrage? How many thousands? Would she even have had an army to command, or been herself alive? There was a deep-seated wrongness about this kind of warfare, so absolutely indiscriminate and distant for the attacker. As if to remind her of what she had preserved, the yelling of the Centurions echoed throughout the camp, even as their men were already assembled and ready.

Archers, ballistae crews and even those who manned trebuchets, still had to be in sight of their targets to strike them. This kind of weapon, however, was fired with only a vague direction in mind. As if to simply send death to 'whomever it may concern'.

"Mage." She grabbed the attention - and shoulder - of one of the battlemages. He'd been scarred and burned by one of the fire-lances, yet was still on his feet with half his face a mess of charred flesh; "I would have you amplify my voice, if you are able."

"I am able, General." Even as it was clear that moving his jaw brought the man pain. It seemed that there were wounds even the magic of the Legion could not heal, though she was not yet understanding of where the line was drawn; "When should I cast the spell?"

"Now, please." She sighed, really not wanting to do what she must now.

She could feel it in her throat when the spell was cast, even if there was no flash of light or intricate movements from the mage. It was not a very complex spell, then, and she felt a little less callous for it.

"Fereldans. Legionaries." Even as she merely spoke, her voice boomed across the gathered men with such volume and force that some jumped on the spot; "Are you all as offended as I am? Orlais finds that they cannot break us, and so they seek refuge in infernal machines of war to burn down what they could not storm with courage or force of arms."

Nods and grunts and jeers rippled in the crowd, amongst her kinsmen and Legionaries both. She knew there was little time, as Orlais might well be marching through the Pass even as she wasted time with a speech. But, she knew well enough that this might be the last she ever got to make, and so damn the gods, she would make it one to remember.

"We are, all of us, strangers brought together by a common cause, bound together by the blood we have shed, of foe and friend alike. It is very likely that we lose our lives this day, for there is little hope of victory as things now stand."

She knew those were not encouraging words, but they were true all the same. They were hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed, and now no longer had the wall either.

"I made you all a promise, when this war began. I would not let Orlais through this Pass, safe for when they have to tramples upon my broken, dead body. I stand by that promise, now as well as henceforth. If it be my fate to die here, by Orlesian hands, then I would rather it be on my feet, standing upon a mound of their dead. I would rather _fight_ , so that songs will remember what we did here, today."

The Summer Sword, gleaming in the early evening sun, rose to the skies. Her arms were sore and ached, yet it barely even hindered her. Acceptance of death did strange things to the human body, she'd long-since understood.

"WILL YOU JOIN ME?"

For a moment, there was only the silence of men comprehending what they had heard. Cauthrien closed her eyes, she could not find it in herself to blame any one of them for such. To surrender and accept Orlesian domination would, after all, mean they could yet live.

Then, a sword struck the boss of its shield, the _clang_ echoing through the silent crowd.

Before she'd even registered where it had come from, another joined in, repeating and matching the first. Two more joined, and then three, four, ten. She quickly lost any notion of how many arms banged against shields, and the noise rose from the ranks of both Fereldans and Imperials. It was a perfect rhythm, only growing in strength with each passing moment until it could as well have been held to her ears, such was the noise.

Four thousand men had found their courage.

"Lower the earthworks." She said in a lower tone, feeling the spell dissipate from her body; "Then head for the flanking hills and join the men there. Tell them to hold fire until we've clashed with the foe, then shoot at their rear and center."

The mage nodded, this time using both arms to weave a spell she could neither see nor feel, though the results were readily visible as the protective wall of dirt and grass collapsed in on itself. It looked like water more so than solid ground, which was strange enough in its own right.

Cauthrien took the lead, striding forward with the massive claymore resting on her shoulder. There was no use for running, not yet. She would run when Orlais was in sight, and no sooner. Those who did not know war would run, and tire themselves before they could ever even engage with the foe.

Behind her, in more or less orderly fashion came the men she commanded. Fereldans and Imperials both, riled up for a fight, though the latter maintained a discipline her own men could not. All the same, they marched with a vigor. Thousands of swords and spears, axes, maces and halberds, arrayed behind her in this, she knew, their final stand.

Only divine intervention would halt her promise of a glorious death in battle, life given in service of either king, country or mandate. She no longer had the faith that such intervention would be granted.

Cauthrien breathed, and let her thoughts wander. Back in time, to better days. Back to her childhood, to her parents, to the farm. To the children she had played with, the boys she had been sweet on, the games she'd played with the others from the village.

That, was what she fought for, _why_ she fought.

There could be no retreat, or all of it would be lost.

"No retreat..."

She breathed out, already now hearing the war cries of the Orlesian infantry, storming forward. They'd been in sight any moment now, surging over the broken ruins of the wall. Arrows and bolts would pepper them from both sides of the valley, but all the same there was simply no stopping the rising tide

"No retreat."

She was only a dozen paces from what remained of the wall, when the first Orlesians came into view. They washed over the broken battlements, just so like a flood.

"No retreat!"

She broke into a run, as did the thousands at her back. The ground shook as something passed her by, a massive construct of ice and wrath. It paid little heed to the halberds of the Orlesian infantry, plowing into their ranks. Dozens of others joined it along the front line, the battlemages of the Legion offering what support they could. But even with such atronachs, there was little hope of victory.

Underneath her helmet, Cauthrien's lips twisted into a snarl, of both ferocity and frustration. She took the last leap, and brought her sword down on the Orlesian before her. Then the rest of the forces joined, and both sides crashed together like the ocean's waves hammering the cliffs of the shore.

"NO RETREAT!" her scream echoed with her helm as she kicked at the man's knee. His shield took the blow from her sword, and she struck him again and again until something gave; "NO SURRENDER! FOR FERELDEN!"

She would not choose a hill to die upon; she would make one of her own, from the bodies of her foes.


	38. Massacre

**Massacre**

 _"If you know yourself, but not your enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat" -_ Legion proverb, 3E

* * *

Chaos.

When Khaok got to the front lines, the Legion was already committed in its entirety, from one side of the Pass to the other. Thousands of Legionaries had formed up in a shield wall, pressing themselves into the Orlesian front line with all the weight and inertia of the Brass God itself. The Legion's shield walls were a thing of beauty, overlapping like the scales of the dragon. It could break even a charge from the Khajiit Senche riders. Not so much against the Senche-Raht, though he doubted Orlais had those on hand.

Where was General Cauthrien then, in all this? Her fighting style was much too Fereldan for his taste, with the ferocity and independence of a warrior, rather than a soldier. Was she up in the front, maybe even fight personally? He prayed not, there'd be little he could do if she was busy getting herself killed while he was on the other side of the battle.

"Legate Khaok!"

There was a strange easing of the tension in his chest, something he attributed to the shifting of his armor as he turned, when he recognized the voice that bellowed for him over the cacophony of warfare and death.

Looking like she'd been dragged face-down through a pigsty first and then slammed into the ground repeatedly, Cauthrien herself came stumbling out of the ranks of Legionaries, each soldier smoothly sidestepping to allow their superior passage. They folded in again when she was past, minds back to the task at hand.

"Good to see you're not dead, General."

"Same to you." She was breathing hard, the sword in her hand used more as a crutch than a weapon now. It was colored dark with blood and bits of meat and leather; "But I did not ask for your presence. How are things in the rear?"

"Better than here." which might just be one of the greatest understatements he'd ever said out loud, but there it was; "We've killed a lot of their Chevaliers, taken more prisoner. We think the rest are holding back now, after their last attack got us three dead, and then a _lot_ more. Out of ammunition for everything though, so it's a grind on equal terms."

"Good, that's..." she heaved for air; "Damn it, we're hard-pressed to hold as it is. Last thing I need on my plate right now is Orlais fucking me in the ass."

"Heh." He could not quite help the chuckle, maybe because of the situation being what it was. Even if Orlais didn't attack the rear, they were still boxed in, and _woefully_ outnumbered; "I suppose that'd be a right pain, yeah. What's the plan, General?"

Cauthrien's face fell somewhat, at that. Which, really, was an accomplishment considering how shit she already looked.

"We're boxed in, all our artillery is destroyed and we've got more wounded than you can shake a fucking _Lanciia_ at..." she sighed, casting a glance at the front. The fighting wasn't even fifty meters away from them, and the constant screaming and clatter of metal morphed into an incoherent mess; "Orlais has the manpower we don't, so even if our soldiers can heal up once cycled back, _they_ can still afford the casualties. They're only sending a half a thousand men at a time, looks like, and the rest are just... _waiting_."

"So, basically they're trying to wear us down too." The Orc surmised; "Smart fuckers, considering they've got the brute force to just break through if they tried."

"Yeah, apparently Gaspard's not that good with massive casualties." Cauthrien groused; "Not his own, at least. Orlais doesn't really know about the whole healing thing, so..."

"So they trying to wear us down." Khaok repeated, picking at his fangs. It seemed Orlais was doing this the smart way, cycling their troops to avoid exhaustion. They did it at the rear too, so it wasn't just the Orlesian general here being a smart cunt. The Legion's only real edge here was that its soldiers could also heal when cycled back, but that was only the wounds that wouldn't take them straight out of the fight immediately.

So, this was what it felt like, to fight an enemy as disciplined and well-drilled as your own men? He had to admit, it sucked. Hard.

"And they will, if this goes on." A glance at the front revealed the fighting to go poorly, which was not what he'd expected. The Legion was the most powerful fighting force on Nirn, Malakath damn it. How was rip-off Bretoni Emperor matching them this well? "Gaspard's got a lot of new toys, his mages are... _generous_ , when it comes to enchanted weapons, apparently too...damn things just cleave straight through plate, bone and all..."

Khaok snarled, rubbing his forehead with bloodstained gloves. The melee had gotten... _intense,_ in the rear at one point. Enchanted weapons, just what he needed. Legionaries trusted in their plate to see them through, just as much as their skills at arms. If the Orlesians could cut through said plate like butter, that'd be a hit to morale he really didn't want to see tested.

The Legion would not break. In spirit, at least. He was not so confident anymore about them not breaking in the very physical sense. Orlais was cheating, it was clear to see.

"...so what happens now, General?" he straightened his stance, making it clear that he awaited orders. Even if there was a nagging thought that they might just be the last he ever got.

"We've no way out of here, and Orlais' not likely to offer us a chance at surrender again, after the tongue-lashing I gave their last messenger..." That sounded like something he'd have liked to see. Cauthrien, too, straightened, even if it was clear she had trouble doing so; "Sorry you got stuck with me, Khaok. We're probably going to die here."

The Orc paused at that, not entirely sure of how to respond. Was she taking personal responsibility for this outcome, or was it just a general offering condolences? Either way, the semantics were irrelevant, if appreciated. A considerate general was a boon any officer would leap for. He'd just been thrown.

"If the mandate demands it." He said instead; "We'll make them walk a carpet of their own dead though."

"You are with me, then?"

"To the death, General."

"To the death..." Cauthrien snorted, and blood flaked from her face as she did; "That'll be a short venture then, I think."

* * *

There was a feeling in his guts, that something was about to go horrifyingly wrong.

Gaspard was not often a man who would rely on his guts above the sharpness of his mind - and it was a sharp mind indeed, he could say so and let it be no idle boast - but there were times when even he could not entirely ignore the feeling of wrongness.

The reports had come back last night, from Illia and the Chevalier he'd sent with her as guard, Phillipe was his name, if memory served. It chilled his spine when the elven mage spoke of the encounter they'd had with the old woman from Kincaster Marsh, and of the titles she'd claimed to hold. Amongst them were names he had to disbelieve, else his campaign had been in vain from the moment he'd started it off.

And what claims, too. He'd already started receiving reports from other spies in Ferelden - which meant sooner or later, so would the Chantry - detailing the complete destruction of the Exalted Fleet. When words them came from those who had posed as peasants, a report from Serah Illia amongst them as well, that the fleet had been wrecked by the appearance of an old woman in steel plate, the clues had fallen into place.

Closure, somehow, had done little to calm his heart.

"Are the Knight-Enchanters and Templars in position?" his voice was steady, all the same, as he addressed Madame De Fer. A strange turn of events had borne the dark-skinned woman from Celene's court to his own, though she served the same position as before. Her presence did its part in reassuring his soul, that the Lady of Iron was overseeing affairs.

"They are all ready, Excellency." She replied, nodding in deference as she spoke.

Unsaid was it, that they had been so as well last he'd asked, half an hour ago. The Highway was where he would do it, for it was doubtful the demonic woman would take any other course when he knew it was he she was after. On both sides of the paved road, the Knight-Enchanters lay in wait, concealed with spells of invisibility. The Templars would strike first, however, dispelling any wards or shields their foe possessed ere the mages bind her, and the Knight-Enchanters would surge in to carve her up with translucent blades of light and fire. A common spear had wounded her on the bridge, after all.

His mind knew that this would work.

His gut disagreed.

In the back of his mind was the desperate call for retreat, to abide by the orders of the inhuman foe. It was fear, he knew that well enough as a soldier, faced with something he did not yet understand. Planning strategies against _one_ person was a different thing indeed from strategies against armies. The latter he could understand, and familiarize himself with, but the notion of a single being as powerful as scores, if not hundreds of men, was a beast he had not yet tangled with.

But he knew also, that this would be the closest they'd get to taking Ferelden by force. Soon, this Empire from across the sea would strengthen its position, and the Fereldan army would no doubt see its numbers swell, and the quality of its soldiers and mages rise. This _had_ to be done now, or the chance would not come again in his lifetime, if at all. And if it was to be done, Ferelden could _not_ have such a weapon in its arsenal as _Ser Alma of the Dane_ , or what ever her true name might have been.

He would have heard of her, he was sure, had she truly been a knight capable of such feats at that battle. That, however, left behind an alternative than in turn left a bitter taste in his mouth. There were more stories and myths of that battle than of the rest of the Rebellion combined. And, if one took into consideration the outlandish raids that Maric had led on the Orlesian forces, there were quite a few of those indeed.

An hour more passed, and he remained on his horse, seated if not comfortably then at least well enough that he could bear it. Saddles were not exactly made for comfort, and his was no exception to the rule. The warm air was a blessing, at least, with the wind blowing all sorts of smells and scents against his back.

They were the wafting essence of Orlais, of home and hearth. The winds that softly flowed through the streets of Val Royeaux, bearing the tones of golden trumpets and pianos. They were the chirping birds in the rose gardens, and the smells of fireplaces and roast duck and wine.

All this, and more, he would fight to defend, and if the fates allowed, to expand and offer to the Fereldans. Their society was inferior, if deeply and undeniably honorable in spirit and deed. They more than deserved the second chance at joining Orlais' destiny and culture, even if they did not at present realize it. Gaspard was not himself blind to the heavy hand with which this had previously been attempted, and understood the reluctance for what it was. His countrymen had not been kind the first time they'd held sway over this valley.

But he would ensure that things were different, this time.

Every commander, from General to lowly Captain, had the orders to hang whatever man was caught looting, pillaging or raping once they'd breached into Ferelden proper. There were to be no misunderstandings, that he was not here to conquer, but to uplift. If he could do so with the elves, damn it all, he could do so with Ferelden as well.

Then, of course, there was the problem of the Chantry itself.

Gaspard was not blind to the aggressiveness that seemed to have infected the higher echelons of the Chantry, in particular that of his own country. Divine Beatrix in particular had only grown more and more fervent as she went on in years, her zealotry making his own faith seem almost atheistic when compared. The Fereldans, those who would disown the Chantry over the Exalted March, had a point. He would lie if he denied that he could see it.

The Chantry was in need of a reform, that much was clear to him. Much as the notion might be reprehensible to many of the noblemen upon whom he relied for support, it was nonetheless the truth. Andraste would not have wanted a Chantry to spread her words with one tongue, and sentence the faithful to pyres with another. Beatrix, again, was the root of his problems in this. When he was done here, and Ferelden brought to heel, and some sort of peace established with the Empire - or at the very least a truce - he would need to turn his eyes on the Chantry, and take personal charge of the situation.

For if the current state of the Chantry could turn away not just the most devout nation in Thedas, but as well the birthplace of the Chantry's very founder, something was very much rotten indeed.

"Excellency." Madame le Fer's voice was calm, as ever; "There is a life form approaching along the highway."

"It is her?"

"...I would hazard to say yes. Whatever or whomever it is, it's moving faster than you could whip a racehorse." Dark eyes narrowed behind a silver mask; "There is a power, I sense...beyond what I've ever encountered in the White Spire."

"I am aware." He muttered, leaning forward in the saddle; "I saw her tossing about men in plate like they were toys to a child...how far away yet?"

"A mile, at most...she's closing fast." The mage spoke; "I'd give it mere minutes before she is upon us..." she paused, when it was evident that he was dismounting; "...What do you intend to do?"

"Wait for my signal, you will know when to strike."

What, indeed? He barely knew himself, only that she need be brought to a stop for the ambush to spring, and no one was more likely to make her do just so than he. Gaspard felt as if the dark-skinned mage's eyes burned the skin of his neck as he made his way down the small hill, to finally set foot upon the tiles of the highway. Tevinter had built this, ages past, and it still held.

Amazing, truly.

The road felt solid and even underneath his feet, a far cry from the cobbled roads of Ferelden, and even most of Orlais'. He would see to that as well, once this was done. Better roads, better wells, better institutions.

A better Orlais, if the Maker was willing, than the one he'd fought to reclaim from Celene. A better Ferelden too, by extension.

He could feel her, even before he really fully understood it. The hairs stood on his neck, a sixth sense as some would claim it, crying bloody murder as the most dangerous being he'd ever faced came thundering over the horizon, betrayed by the cloud of dust kicked up in her trail. The ground shook, it felt like, or maybe it was only himself. His nerves would not fail him, not now, in this moment. He'd faced down Celene's rockets before taking them for himself, and refused the commands of his aides that he retreat.

He would not do so now, either.

When she came to a stop before him, it felt less so like a person, and more as if a force of nature had halted its path. A storm, packed within a mortal form, with a rage that cracked the tiles she stood upon. Red shone from within the visor, eyes trailing fire. Steam billowed from within, and the air grew dry and heated. It even seemed to shimmer around the armored figure, as if she were a furnace on legs.

The thought of such a being, leading Ferelden's armies, was even more terrifying than it was to stand before her now. Here, at least, he was prepared for her. Fury and rage had walked her into his trap.

"Gaspard." The voice might as well have been that of a golem, so bereft of emotion or humanity was it. But, then again, she had herself claimed to have abandoned such long ago.

"Ser Alma." He greeted her; "You should not have come."

" **Do you want me to kill you, Gaspard?!"** This time, there was emotion in her words. Inhuman and flanged, as if spoken by multiple voices at once, it was a rage he doubted even the storms she had called onto the Chantry's fleet could match. He was forced to blink, not for fear, but to keep his eyes from drying out in her presence; " **I have given you every chance. I have warned you, not once now, but twice, that you are not welcome in these lands!"**

"You have." He nodded, and it was true, she _had_ given him ample opportunity to retreat. Had the stakes not been what they were, he might well have heeded her warning the first time it was given; "I recall."

" **And yet here you are,** _ **east**_ **of the River Dane. Headless and heedless of my warnings!"** the motion with which she bent her neck to the side was an unnatural one, more like a bird of prey than a human being; **"Have you grown so bold,** _ **human**_ **, that you think I would not kill you? That I would not pay vengeance upon your lands in manners that would make Andraste's march seem flaccid?!"**

"Not at all, Ser." He shook his head, keeping his hands clenched and ready behind his back; "I believe you indeed quite capable of both. I believe you powerful, far more so than any individual I've ever encountered before."

" **And yet here you are."** She repeated the same words as before, the air around her crackling with malevolence. It would be a lie to claim she did not terrify him, to the point that the dread sat in his bones. He'd never met a foe he feared as much as her; **"Every breath of air you take violates the balance I seek to maintain. Why should I not snap your neck and throw your corpse in the ditches?"**

"Because I shall not give you the chance." In one motion, he stepped back and spread out his arms, fists unfolded into open palms. It was the signal, and Vivienne would know it as such; "This ends here."

" **It does."**

But when the demonic woman took a step towards him, the very sun itself descended upon her. Hundreds of Templars, kneeling with their swords before them, cast in unison the strongest Smite Gaspard believed to have been ever cast upon a single foe. The light was so bright that even as he shielded his shut eyes with an armored hand, it was still blinding in its intensity.

Half a minute, that was how long it lasted, as the Templars exhausted themselves with Holy Smite upon Holy Smite. The ground trembled and the wind changed, cold and hot in the same breath. From as safe a distance as he could make it on foot in time, the Emperor of Orlais watched the beacon of light as it pulsated. It was all but impossible to even _see_ the figure within.

One by one, however, the Templars were forced to cease. He was taking no chances, and had ordered them to continue until utterly spent. Most mages would succumb to one, or at most two strikes, but then, most mages could not throw about men in steel plate like they were twigs and leafs.

" **That does it!"**

The roar came from within the lights, even as the last of it fades away. Ser Alma still stood where she'd stood before the Maker's own Smite struck her, looking to the world as if she'd merely been doused in hot waters. Steam rolled from her body and from betwixt the plates, but beyond that, there was not a sign that she had been struck with so many Holy Smites. It was, he could quietly confess, unsettling even beyond what he had already expected.

" **Did you...** _ **really**_ **think...** _ **that**_ **would work?!"**

It was therefore fortunate that she was not alone in reacting to the dissipation of the Templars' strikes. Walls of green, blue and myriads of other colors shot from the ground around her, hexes and glyphs and wards being spun and woven as quickly as the spells could be cast. Wines and chains shot from the road, latching onto anything and everything they could. His foe ripped and tore them away as fast as they could emerge from the ground, but courtesy of the hexes forbade her to move away, or even move her legs at all. He could not quite make out the details from where he stood, but it was as if the ground had started swallowing her, halfway up the shins.

Slowly, however, the chains would bind and the wines grab. For each she missed, her movements slowed and halted. Many chains shattered and more wines snapped, but some remained, and as the seconds passed, those that remained grew in numbers until hardly an inch of her armored figure was free of their grasps. The bonds tightened around his foe, much as she did visibly struggle against them.

Everyone had their limits, no matter the power they could wield.

When it was clear that she could no longer move, the Knight-Enchanters revealed themselves, surging from both sides of the road. Golden and silvery blades materialized in their grasps, ready to cut apart the monster where she stood. Gaspard sighed, quietly lamenting that it had to come to this.

The Knight-Enchanters closed in, though cautious. He'd commanded them to be as much, the last encounter with Ser Alma still fresh in memory. They circled around her like sharks around the sinking raft, blades humming with a low, soft tone that he could hear, even well distanced as he was. Their scale maille and plate shone as they reflected the sun, a display of Orlesian elegance, even on the field of battle.

Then, as if it had all been a pretense, his foe flexed and stretched, and the chains and vines that had bound her so tightly, shattered and snapped. Enchanted chains and wines spell-spun by the best of the White Spire, disintegrating by the will of the one they were meant to hold. Gaspard, for a moment, forgot how to breathe.

"I must applaud you, Gaspard!" he would never admit to anyone not present to see it, that her addressing him in such casual, light-hearted a tone, caused him more of a shock than seeing so many spells come undone from what looked like naught by physical prowess and strength. The Knight-Enchanters, too, had frozen on the spot. The plan had hinged on her being as well as defenseless, and now she was anything but; "You set a trap of stages, and your men have followed it well enough!"

He did not even try to answer. It was clear she expected nothing of the kind. Ser Alma, instead, seemed to take in her position, surrounded as it was, with the curiosity of a peer, rather than the target of an ambush. Dozens of masked, robed and armored figures, each wielding weapons of light that could carve a Qunari from shoulder to waist with barely a pause.

" **But still, you do not get it."** The voice was different again, dark and malevolent and with promises of destruction and death. And somehow, not as unsettling as the lighter tones she'd espoused just now before; **"And in your unflinching arrogance, you have ignored my final warnings."**

There was no more of a warning given, before she struck a hand at the skies and clenched all but her long and ring finger, a violent thrust more so than the rude gesture he at first thought it to be.

The Knight-Enchanters surrounding her swung their blades and closed in.

Gaspard held his breath.

 _She_ struck the ground.

Screams, the sort of which he'd never heard before beyond the realms of nightmares. The Knight-Enchanters screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Their weapons dissipated as they forgot all but the need to scream and claw at their heads and bodies. It was an otherworldly sound, screams so high and shrill that they should not come from human throats.

"Impossible!" Vivienne exclaimed; "They struck her with so many- and _still_ she can move, let alone cast spe-?!"

Her words ended when the screams did as, in perfect unison, every one of the Knight-Enchanters _came apart_ , in great showers of gore and blood. Gaspard felt bile rise in his throat as flesh and bone and blood washed away from the woman in the center of it all, soaking the ground where it could, or simple piled upon the paved highway in mounds of flesh and shattered bone. It appeared more like _apple pulp_ than human remains.

" _Monster..._ " Vivienne whispered under her breath, moving closer to his side. It was not so much for her own comfort than it was for his safety, he knew. Still, he could not argue. Alma herself had once said to him that she had left behind her humanity, but only now was he starting to understand.

" **Watch closely, Emperor of Orlais. I will have you learn this lesson you refused before."**

And then she stood, the monster. With the glaive in hand with which she had laid waste to his Chevaliers upon the bridge, and eyes that trailed fire from within her helm. Gaspard was frozen to the spot, himself unsure of whether it was terror or awe that held him in place. He was still close to her, far too close for comfort, and yet found that his feet would not carry him away.

The Templars, without his command nor permission, surged forward. The mages, those that had cast hexes and curses and spells, now turned their talents to fireballs and spellfire. Destruction rained upon the woman, and the spot she occupied. Hurricanes of fire and tempest swirled around her, as acid and lightning rained down from above, and the ground itself spat forth boulders that could have cracked the gates of Val Royeaux herself.

She came out of that, armor blackened and cracked, but her stride unbroken.

The Templars stormed forward, shields raised and angled so that no matter what she threw at them of spells, the enchantments in the steel would direct it away. They moved as one, a wall of steel and faith that closed in on the monster before them. History's most terrible of apostates had turned and fled before such a sight.

Alma, however, was apparently greater, and far more terrible.

With a strike to the ground of her glaive, the soil became as liquid, and swallowed up the Templars where they stood until they had only their heads above ground. He'd not even managed to blink as it happened, yet it had. A weak hope remained, that she might spare them now they no longer posed a threat.

A new strike to the ground, as if it was the tolling of a doom bell. It was the sound of thin ice upon a lake when pressured, otherworldly, serene and yet terrifying of what was beneath.

True to such terror, the soil liquefied once more, and the Templars, in their hundreds, simply vanished as they were dragged underneath. The earth swallowed them up like a beast would.

The sight was a horror, and left him beyond words.

Had she killed them instantly, or were they even now suffocating underground, as soil and worms fill their mouths and screams became silent?

" **Run, Orlesians. Run, for if you do not I will render you as so much feed for the soil upon which you stomp uninvited."**

She turned next to the battlemages, those that had not yet ceased in raining down spellfire and acid upon her. A kick to the ground saw the earth itself launch her away, and through the air as she soared towards the mages on the roadside hills. They scattered as she closed in, their spellfire becoming loose, sporadic and disjointed.

Madame de Fer hewed and vomited at what came next.

She moved through them, faster than the eye could properly track, and scythed them down like stalks of wheat. Those that turned to defend themselves, with either shields or fire, she cut down in kind. Barriers and fireblasts did not even slow the monster's steps.

Some, she broke apart. Barehanded and faster than his eyes could track, breaking and beating until there was only pulp remaining.

She tore others in halves so that their guts spilled out and flew wide. This was where Vivienne spewed, her horror akin to his own, but her ties to her fellow mages much stronger.

Others again, she cut down with that Reaper's Glaive of hers. Men fell apart as the blade passed through barriers and bodies, so smoothly that some even carried on in steps ere they came apart at the waists, or slid asunder from shoulder to hip.

The screaming persisted, men and women fleeing for their lives as their prey had become the predator, and they in turn the lambs for the slaughter.

Gaspard turned, both so that he could warn Madame de Fer of their retreat, but also so that he did not have to look upon such massacre and humiliation of the Chantry's faithful. Of the men and women sworn to serve him. He had not intended for such an end.

This was not a battle, and never really had been. He'd laid in wait for her, hundreds of Templars and mages under his command. The trap had been sprung, and yet now...now, he realized as the cold crept in, there was none left but himself and Vivienne.

However, when he turned, Madame De Fer's eyes, wide, teary and frantic, were not on him, but instead seemed to peer past his head. The hairs stood on his neck as the air became choked and thick with malevolent energies. In the same motion, he drew his sword, turned and swung it.

The blade connected.

Alma was _right there_ , not a mere behind him, blood stained and abominable.

His sword, master-crafted steel enchanted by Madame de Fer herself, was caught between two fingers. He stared, first at the pair of fingers pinching the blade of his sword like it was a twig, then at the grinning face, no longer concealed within a helm.

 _Abomination_.

She was an abomination, and no longer in deeds alone. Gaspard's breath caught in his throat, his eyes locked on the grin that stretched from ear to ear, sharp canine teeth, like those of a wolf, stretching visibly where cheeks should have been. Scales of reddish hue crept up her neck and throat, growing out of the skin itself.

Her eyes, as well, were not those of any human being. Sharp, almost glowing green, with tall and narrow pupils, so much more akin to a reptile than a person. She blinked, as if taken aback at his reaction, yet the eyelids now came from the sides, rather than vertically.

Merciful Maker, what kind of _demon_ was he dealing with?

Before he had a chance to _ask_ , Gaspard found himself yanked backwards by a gust of wind. It was without Vivienne's usual flair for finesse, and far more a desperate attempt to get him behind her. Alma remained where she - _it -_ stood, arm stretched out as if about to grab him.

" _Begone_ , Abomination!" Vivienne yelled, aiming her staff at the being before them. Fire, frost and lightning streamed from the ornate metals in its tip, washing over the demon before them. The hope was lit that the attack caught her by surprise, and that she might become undone at last.

Alma held up a hand palm first, and the spellfire had no greater impact than rain on a duck's backside. He almost laughed at the unfairness of it all, for truly, what could man or mage do against this kind of power? The power to weather a hundred Templars and as many mages, and to simply appear mildly singed?

"Feisty, Madame De Fer. Just like your fellows, yet we've seen what such amount to against me" The beast hummed, that unnatural grin on her face; "But I don't need _you_ alive, so save it for someone else, or I'll leave Gaspard to limp home on his lonesome."

"And we should trust in the words of an _abomination_?" Gaspard demanded, his voice hoarse with horror. His life was as well as forfeit now anyways, and he doubted any insults or curses he threw at her would change anything in the end.

"Abomi... _oh_ " the sight of her lips moving as she spoke was sickening and wrong, like ripples of skin. The grin vanished, replaced instead with a scowl that was no less disturbing. Gaspard realized with a start that she still had his sword, and that bar his dagger he was now unarmed; "oh...shit, that's not supposed to show..."

What was going on?

"I _did_ tell you I'd abandoned my humanity, Gaspard." The grin reappeared, as chilling now as it had been before. He knew it'd make little difference against such a monster, but all the same he wished he'd not left the rest of the army in camp. Even if they found out the ambush had failed, and how would they, when she had butchered all but himself and Madame De Fer?

"You are revealed, demon." Vivienne scowled; "Cease the act, it does you no credit."

"Okay, so I'll let that one slide." Alma scoffed, waving off the declaration as if it were a mere accusation, and she an innocent; "Now then, how about we all calm down, and we can discuss my terms for your surrender?"

She said those words, with a levity that did not match her blood-stained appearance.

"Emperor, do _not_ listen to the beast." Vivienne implored him; "We can still escape and regroup with-"

"Shush, Vivienne." Alma stepped closer, her inhuman eyes locked on the enchanter; "First of all, no. You _can't_ escape me. Second, don't even try. Third, I intend to allow you to flee Ferelden with what remains of your army, Gaspard."

He did not believe her.

The promise was too good, too hopeful. She could kill him once his back was turned, or just right here and now. She had already laid waste to more than a hundred of the Chantry's champions, and suffered not even a scratch. Compared to this, her display of power on the bridge wasn't even impressive. She was an inhuman monster, taking lives with a grin on her lips.

She had no reason to let him live. He knew that. She knew that. He knew that she knew that he knew that.

"Why...why would I _ever_ trust in something _you_ would say, monster?" his words were tired, weary. Trying to take Ferelden was a lost cause, he could no longer escape that realization. There was a cruel, almost sardonic sense of humor, in that he'd worried and speculated so many hours and days on how to best the Legion, and in the end his defeat had come at the hands of...of this _thing_ , masquerading as an old woman.

"Because I always keep my word, Gaspard."

Suddenly, she was _far too close_ to him. He hadn't even seen her move before she was a foot away, her malevolent grin outrageous and repulsive this close. Her breath was rancid with blood and fire, more the breath of a dragon than what any human being ought have. The blood of _his_ people.

He didn't even have the time to flinch back before she grabbed his arm, hard enough that he both felt and heard the bones creak;

"Speaking of which..."

* * *

 **I will admit, I did not plan for this chapter to reach six thousand words, which is a lot longer than my chapters usually stretch to.**

 **I have been waiting to do this scene for a _long_ time, and I have been fretting somewhat at the risk of jumping the shark. I keenly remember that being a problem when I wrote Saren's scene on Virmire. When you have a character reach a certain degree of power, this is a very real risk. I haven't yet actually showed her constraints as much as they have been vaguely aluded to, so I don't blame those who think her overpowered. **

**That being said, I also very much enjoyed writing this chapter. The sense of powerlessness from both sides of the war is something I take great pleasure in, mordbidly as that sounds. Especially because I consider neither side to be "bad" in the usual storyteller sense. Gaspard has good intentions, but plans on taking power that is not his to take. The Empire has good intentions, but is not above firebombing a city.**


	39. The Breaking Point

**The Breaking Point**

* * *

Prince Valerian Mede was a young man.

And, as so many other young men, his mind was these days often occupied with thoughts of frivolous pursuits. Being Tamriel's most eligible bachelor did, he supposed, give him a little confidence in his mind. Alai Aulus yet lingered in there, even now when it had ben weeks since her departure from the Imperial City. The girl had smiled and laughed with him, yes, just like all the other girls that had been brought around him during his upbringing. But, somehow it had felt different. Like she was indifferent to their disparity in societal standing. Even chained to a chair as she was, she bore it with a levity he could not help but find inspiring.

And not a little alluring.

It was strange, a sensation he could not quite explain, though understood well enough that it was likely not a matter he ought bring before his grandfather. He knew already what words his mother would bring about, would he tell her of this. The subject of grandchildren was never far removed from any conversation of their that so much as _approached_ women.

The only other to ask would be his father, but Crown Prince Octavian Mede was yet to return from the campaign in Morrowind. The criers and bell ringers would be sure to make it known the moment father even took so much as a single step back towards Cyrodiil.

Now, however, there had come a matter to his attention that required he pushed aside thoughts of the alluring, dark-haired beauty from the north. Much as his blood demanded otherwise, his mind was sharp enough to focus on what was at hand, that being a summons from his grandfather.

Family or not, one did not make the Emperor wait.

He knew there were many in the Empire who did not love their sovereign. His grandfather had, in their eyes, bent the knee to the elves in the Great War, and some would rather opt for rebellion, rather than sensibility. Valerian knew he was afforded the luxury of a clear perspective, a benefit of extensive tutoring and the Imperial Library being at his disposal. As such, he knew the grounds for both the war, and the ceasefire that followed. Emphasis, he knew, was to be laid on the word 'ceasefire', rather than peace.

The Thalmor would not be content with peace, he knew. His father knew this as well, as did his grandfather.

But the people, the commoners of the Empire, likely did not. They bore the hope that the Great War would be the only one they would come to see, though he knew his grandfather prepared for, and fully expected one before his own reign was even at an end. When he reached the ornately carved doors to the Emperor's personal studies, the guards pushed them open before him, requiring no command to do so. Faceless and imposing behind ebony masks and plate, they had always reminded him more of statues than men.

They knew well enough to let him through.

"Valerian." His grandfather straightened in his chair, halfway hidden from view by the mountains of parchment upon his desk; "Come in."

"Grandfather." Valerian bowed, a habit more so than it was a requirement; "You sent for me?"

The Emperor stood, slowly, hands on his hips as he did. The prince watched his grandfather in deference, aware that he was old. Older than most Emperor who had remained serving. The sun washed in through the large, crystal-paned windows, bathing the room in light and warmth.

A stark contrast to how most likely thought an Emperor would choose his office.

"Yes..." a smile touched the old face; "I feel in need of fresh air. Will you join me for a walk in the gardens?"

It was not often that the Emperor voiced a question that allowed for actual refusal, and though Valerian knew this to be one such rare occasion, he did cherish the private hours with his grandfather. Whilst his own father was the epitome of stoicism and valor, the best a man could strive to be, his grandfather possessed a sort of calm, a learned posture and spirit that could not be found in the Crown Prince. It was always a chance to learn, and expand upon his horizons, when he spent time with the mightiest man in Tamriel.

If not the whole world.

The gardens had bloomed when he'd walked with Alai through them, and picked flowers out for the girl's curiosity to identify. He'd known less than a fraction of the species she could name, and though he remembered only a few of them, that too, had been an educating experience. Not so much considering the flowers, though.

But now the gardens were in full flourish, bushes and trees decorated with thick and rich covers of leafs. The roses hadn't yet all bloomed, though many seemed about ready to burst with life. The Emperor was known to love his gardens, and took personal care of them even as gardeners would ensure they were pristine no matter the season. They enrounded the White-Gold Tower like a living moat, but one that very much so bristled with life, and had a walkway of flat stones from the quarries of Skyrim's Reach.

When the Emperor was out on tours of the Empire, or even military campaigns, the gardens would be open to the public as well. Children especially adored the lush flowerbeds and the berry bushes abundant. Valerian had too, as a child, and still to this day enjoyed the change from cobblestone, tiles and marble that they afforded.

"There have been news from across the sea." Valerian always waited for his grandfather to begin their conversations. He perked up, keenly aware of the old man's tone; "The War is about to open on a new front."

"General Tullus?"

"Indeed." His grandfather nodded. Valerian had met the general, once, and found him more likeable than his fellows. The man had an attitude that seemed unchanged from that of an enthusiastic youth, yet the experience of any seasoned campaigner; "He has made the crossing over the Orlesian border. So far, resistance has been all but absent."

"They didn't expect an attack from the north." He surmised; "What of the war in Ferelden?"

The smile his grandfather let show was enough to betray that he'd been expecting the question, and was satisfied that he'd not needed to prod for it.

"General Belisarius' last report spoke of a deadlock in Gherlen's Pass, and the emergence of a Tongue."

Valerian nearly stilled in his steps. It was not unnoticed.

"In Ferelden?" he wasn't quite sure what his voice resembled when he spoke; "But...but they have no ties to our gods, to _any_ gods but their own one. How could anyone of them know of such power?"

"The good general believes the Tongue a Breton, though one that has been in Ferelden for many, many years prior to our recent rediscovery..." His grandfather paused, admiring the delicate petals of an almost blooming rose; "I have been giving her emergence some thought, as is right..."

The Emperor of Tamriel paused, gently picking a beetle from the rose, a creature Valerian had not spotted. There was always something surreal, even to him, when the most powerful man in the known world would busy himself with literal insects and flowers.

"Belisarius has had men watching her, even before we knew she was a Tongue. The bits of conversation his spies managed to scrape together were enough that I stumbled upon an idea..." a frown marred his grandfather's forehead, the almost entirely bald crown making it hard to see where one started and the other ended; "I have tasked the Cynod, as well as the College of Whispers, with investigating any freak magical activity that could have sent someone across the seas."

"...and?" Valerian dared, finding himself excited at such a turn of events.

The Emperor sighed, and flicked the beetle from his fingers.

"There has been nothing, at least nothing recorded by any archives we have in our possession." He muttered; "That, of course, led me to another notion, though not quite so likely. Given her displays of power, it is not entirely impossible that this Tongue is a remnant from the last invasion of Akavir."

The prince stilled for a moment, counting within himself how many centuries that would put on a person.

"I already know what you mean to say, Valerian." His grandfather mused; "Such a feat would render her amongst the oldest people alive in the world. I do not say such is a certainty, but it is also not a possibility we can so readily discard of."

For a long moment, Valerian was uncertain of how to respond to such an idea. The notion was indeed fantastical, but at the same time, this was an era of manifested gods and world eaters. He could not in clear conscience dismiss this. So, the words he chose for his final response were somewhat less enthused, and more measured in turn.

"...I see."

Valerian averted his eyes from the watchful gaze of his grandfather. The Imperial City was a massive metropolis, home to hundreds of thousands. Vendors beyond counting, bazars, schools, academies and brothels and butchers shops. It all came together in a cacophony of noise that was rendered muffled by the imposing walls that separated the gardens from the streets beyond. In this way, he supposed, they were still apart from the people, even if physically they were so very near.

"I want an end to this war." When his grandfather spoke again, he could have been forgiven for thinking it the Emperor simply thinking aloud. But Valerian knew better, knew his grandfather better; "It is not a question of whether or not we will win it, understand. The Legion currently engaged with Orlais was only meant to clear out the Darkspawn, and keep the peace. Its military might is not even half of what I granted Tullus, and even then it is holding back a force many times its size."

Valerian was tempted, the youthful and idealistic part of him, to point out that such was natural. It was, after all, the _Legion_. There did not exist a force upon Nirn that could face the Legion head-on, and come out on top. Even the Thalmor, with all their spellfire and wrath and deceit, had failed in the end.

He knew better, however, than to espouse such when his grandfather was within earshot.

"I loathe the thought of men killing men, whilst elves plot our downfall." The Emperor muttered, his fingers clenched so tightly around the budding rose that, when a muscle seemed to twitch in his arm, he picked it clean off. Valerian watched him look at the tiny bud, turning it over as if pondering how such had come to be, before it was discarded into the soil; "I have instructed that, when Orlais has been humbled, we will offer them a white peace."

"Even though _they_ were the instigators?" Valerian pointed out; "That is not right, grandfather."

"Maybe it is not right, but wars can never determine who is right, Valerian." The tone betrayed slight disappointment, and Valerian averted his gaze, aware that his idealism had brought him further than reason; "War only determines who is left, and I would rather this war leaves both sides standing."

"Even so..."

"Had the Thalmor won the war, they would no doubt have it written in every book and scroll that _they_ were in the right, that _we_ were the instigators." His grandfather sighed; "Too much of my reign has been spent with wars, and the business of waging them. A good emperor never has to concern himself with wars, he can nip them in the bud, before they bloom into chaos and bloodbaths...but, enough of these matters. I did not take to the gardens to spoil the air with dark thoughts..."

Valerian paused, and looked back up at his grandfather. Sometimes, it was odd to think that a man of such contemplation had fathered a man of such military brilliance as his own father. Octavian Mede could almost not be any more different from the Emperor, both men forged of each their time. The Crown Prince had grown up with the Thalmor threat a very real one indeed, and had followed the Emperor through the war.

He had learned on the fly, as they said.

"Omluard Aulus has sent me a message." He perked up at that, thoughts immediately flying to the House Aulus, and its youngest heiress. He pushed them aside as best he could, focusing instead on the conversation; "His daughter, Alai, is in need of finishing her arcane studies, but Evermore lacks the facilities to truly see her abilities bloom."

"I see." It was difficult, keeping his voice and tone neutral in the face of what was implied.

"He would like to send her to the Cynod, here in the capital, but students from outside the Imperial province must have a voucher for their presence there." Immediately, he could imagine coming to her aid in such a matter, the prince providing for the budding sorceress. They were thoughts of childish fancy, he knew. But, all the same... "I cannot be tied to such matters, naturally, but...perhaps you might be willing to put your word in for her? I am certain both she and her family would be quite grateful."

"She would be..." Valerian coughed and caught himself, all too aware that his grandfather was smiling through his teeth at his blunderings; "I mean, it would only be right, wouldn't it? Gratitude such as theirs could help strengthen the bonds within the Empire."

"Indeed, Prince Valerian." There was something curious to his grandfather's tone, something he couldn't quite place. In his own defense, his thoughts now floated with images of the smiling, crippled girl. He forced them down ere they turned to indecent fantasies, which they had a habit of doing; "A strengthening of bonds."

* * *

"Strengthen that shield wall!" Khaok's voice boomed over the battlefield; "Form ranks you maggots! Form ranks! First four lines, hold your ground! Next four lines, form a secondary shield wall and prepare to receive the charge!"

War, and all its matters and workings. He knew them, and lived them. The Legion would not break, not to such rabble. The soldiers did as instructed, even as the orders came not from the General, but merely their Legate. They knew him, and knew the cost of disobedience in the face of such dire odds. Khaok knew this, and knew they would obey.

It was that or death for them all.

"Eight and Ninth Cohort Centurions, report status!"

His bellows did not cease, though he did turn towards the approaching officers, easily recognized by their crested helms. Their Cohorts had yet to engage, and he intended to make full use of that.

"Eight Cohort, intact and fresh, Legate!"

"Ninth Cohort, minor casualties but fresh as well, Legate!" as if to hint as the cause of said casualties, the man's face was covered in soot. The Lanciia, then, those accursed weapons of war.

"Take your men back to camp and equip them with pikes. I want them ready to slide through the secondary shield wall _before_ the first one breaks."

He did not need to dismiss them, for both officers took off the moment it was clear he was through speaking. In the same breath, he turned towards the soldiers already now forming up into a new wall of overlapping shields.

"Sarissa formation, you dogs! Gabs in shields, second line supports the first! Make room for pikemen in between!" there was blood in his mouth. He could taste the cobber, bitter and sweet all at once. Constant shouting would spare no throat, not even that of an Orc; "Everyone else, falls back behind the secondary wall and prepares to form the next line of defense! First line hold!"

He wished they still had support from the hills, but it seemed every arrow, every bolt and slingstone had been spent. The men up there could now do little but watch, and send down reports on enemy movements.

"First line holding!" the call came from up ahead, from the Centurions who went around behind the backs of their men, using their command sticks to prod and push those that faltered, or show fresh men where to fill the gap left behind by a fallen soldier.

Even so, Khaok could hear desperation in their voices. There were warriors amongst the Orlesians, men they had first assumed captains or officers on grounds of their arms and armor. They did not fight as the other soldiers did, but instead seemed far more solitary in how they approached the business of butchers.

They wore the armor of officers, and the Orlesian troops seemed to hold them in esteem, but something about them did not match with the supposed _élan_ of the Orlesians, that he had heard so much about. They did not seem to approach battle with the same weary professionalism as their peers, but rather, as if it was really just beneath them. The swords they swung about glowed and shimmered with ethereal light, moments before they would split apart a shield, or slice through steel plate.

His first thoughts had been Orlesian battlemages, but all reports had placed those in the host Gaspard was leading north of them. He was, yet, placing his trust in the reliability of their own scouts, though doubt now gnawed, like a Skeever at bone.

But it did not change what he saw, and with each Legionary slain by his plate rendered as resistant as paper, Khaok's frustrations only mounted. He was _missing_ something. He _knew_ he was missing something, and it curled his guts into knots.

Minutes passed by, and with every moment it seemed the first shield wall would buckle and break. Then it held, and then once more it seemed on the point of breaking apart. The front line was cycling and healing itself as best it could, but he was putting them to the task with only four lines of men.

Everything now hinged on whether those Cohorts could get back in time for the first line to withdraw without casualties that would allow the Orlesians to break through and massacre the retreating troops.

"Second line! Open ranks and prepare to let the first line through!"

The Legion was a machine of war, and right now, he needed that machine oiled and working to the point where the damn _Dwemer_ would have gone green with envy. If even _one_ cog or gear scratched or did not fit, the machine risked breaking.

He would not tolerate that.

The Legion's first showing in Thedas would _not_ be a defeat.

The short blowing of a signal horn betrayed the return of the Eighth and Ninth Cohorts, now bearing the seven foot Sarissa pikes. These were lighter than the Menaulae, and while it meant they might snap against the armor of a heavy cavalry charge, they were more than adequate for infantry, and allowed their wielders to keep their shields.

"Centurions, get your men in position!" Khaok did not waste a breath, not even allowing the officers to report their return. Immediately, he turned back to the battle at hand, and grabbed hold of a Hastati not yet engaged; "Give word to the horns, first line must retreat immediately upon the mage's intervention!"

The man nodded and took off, and only in departure did the Legate realize the cause for the man's idleness. His left arm ended at the elbow, the cut far too clean for any common sword. Still, the order was given and he turned back once more, the front only a dozen meters ahead.

It was starting to break, barely anywhere on the line three man thick. And the Orlesians knew it, definitely, their pushing becoming harder and heavier. Behind him, the pikemen lined up, and the ranks opened, ready to close immediately like the gates of a sluice. And behind them again, the Legion's battlemages, those that had survived the bombardment, tore miniscule holes in Mundus, black and purple spheres dancing in their palms.

Then, the horns blew.

As if the ground itself spat them out, towering Atronachs sprung from nonexistence between the two armies. Men were thrown about as the space they had occupied now hosted monsters of ice and rock and wrath. Atronachs of stone and ice, each the rage of the elements made manifest, appeared and spread chaos and disorder amongst the Orlesians. Khaok allowed himself the hint of a toothy grin, as monuments to the Empire's arcane might trampled and turned men in blue and silver into smears and strains. _How do you like that, you cheating sons of whores?_

Not a moment was wasted, the Centurions of the first line beating their men back into an orderly retreat, themselves dragging the wounded where necessary. Much like silver-scaled fish, they streamed through the gaps in the second line, the Centurions forming the rear as the last ones through.

"CLOSE RANKS! CLOSE RANKS!"

The ranks began to close, shields sliding, overlapping shields with precision and confidence only years of drilling could instill. The Centurions could be proud of their men. Khaok's musings only lasted as long as it took him to breathe in anew. He had more orders to bellow yet.

"PIKEMEN! FORWARD!"

He might have deafened out even the horns themselves, such was his voice as it boomed over the ranks. There was a hurry in his tone as well, for up ahead it was apparent that the Atronachs fared about as well against those spellswords as steel plate had. Those that faced only soldiers fared well enough, but as soon as they came too close to those terrors, be they ice or rock, the Orlesians carved them apart.

Around and before him, the pikemen awaited the order as they stood at the ready. Only foot roughly was slid into place in the gaps in the shield wall, the wielder holding it ready for thrust. Khaok's hand was in the air, ready to drop, but he had to time this. He _had_ to time it, so that the pikes could catch Orlais in the charge, where their soldiers would not be as keen with their shields.

But where he had expected a charge, a horn now blew. It was clearer and with a different tone to that of the Legion's, and it was apparent that Orlais as well could add music to the cacophony of battle. The Orc frowned as the men that had just now been prepared to charge, instead turned and made their way back from the front.

"...oh great." The Legate sighed, watching as new, and fresh-looking troops took their places. Orlais was in no hurry, and held the initiative. So, of course they would field fresh troops when it seemed the time was for it; "READY MEN!"

"Sarissa, ready!"

"Pikes ready!"

The new troops did not charge, as he had hoped they would. Instead, they moved forward, cautiously and with determination in their steps. It bothered him something fierce how alike they were to Legionnaires. _His_ Legionaries, and damn if that wasn't an insult to his personal honor. And to the General's, and the Emperor's by extension.

All the same, there came a point when they picked up their pace, mere meters between the lines. Khaok's fist dropped in that instant, and the Centurions bellowed orders almost as fast. All along the line, men would lay into the pikes they held, and shoved them through the holes in the shield wall. The Sarissa was made for this, too, and did not have the broad, leaf-like head of the Menaulae. Instead it was a single, steel-tipped point, that allowed it to slide effortlessly through those holes, and into the bodies of their foes.

It was akin to firing a volley of crossbow bolts at point blank range.

The first few seconds, chaos and screams filled the Orlesian ranks, as seven feet of death sprung from the awaiting wall of shields. They punctured plate and mail alike, goring men where they stood. From what the Orc could see from his position, more than two thirds of the men had scored a kill with that first strike. The men then pulled back their pikes, only to thrust them back out moments later, the bodies of their first kills left to slump on the ground.

Even as the Orlesian ranks crashed into the shield wall, the pikes sprang back out again, piercing whomever had not guarded themselves against such, and then vanished back into the shields, faster than any quick-witted soldier could have cut them off.

Out, and inside again, back and forth.

It was like watching the pistons moving on some ancient Dwemeri construct, for indeed this was an example of the Imperial war machine at work, doing its bloody business.

He allowed himself, briefly, to wonder at how Cauthrien's side of things was going, in the rear.

Fighting off the Orlesians in the trenches was a task she was far better equipped for, and had admitted to such herself. Once more, he could not blame her for being unwont to this kind of warfare. She would likely die there, he knew, and he would not find out if she did, for if she died there, it would mean Orlais had breached the rear lines, and would come charging up their asses real damn soon.

She likely had the harder task, as the current situation here was...he wasn't about to call it manageable, for there was still no end in sight of the Orlesian forces, and a very much in sight end for his own. Just one Cohort remained that had not yet been thrown at the enemy, and it was joining the remains of the first shield wall in forming up a new one, behind where he now stood.

A horn blew, one of the Orlesian ones. They were two consecutive blows, sharp and quick, like clapping hands.

Khaok frowned, climbing onto a piece of debris from the wall to allow him better vision. He knew this was a dangerous position if any archers were among the foe. Hopefully any there were had expended their ammunition, just as their own archers had. From what he could see, there was something of a general withdrawal going on amongst the Orlesians, though he was not enough of a fool to think it their actual retreat.

There was something else going on here...and likely, he found himself surmising, it had to do with the figures in leathery black coats, everything inch of them concealed behind the same, black cloth. Only their eyes were not, but here it seemed clear glass had been put in place. They held strange staff-like things in their hands, and behind them came another man for each of them, similarly dressed, but this one only carried a large, bulbous sack that seemed of hard leather, like a hipflask.

He could not make out what their purposes would be, because damn they did not look like any kind of mages he'd seen before. Necromancers, maybe? Not that there weren't ample corpses around, but he'd heard Andrastians despised those, though. Would Orlais stoop so low? There were not a great number of them, but it seemed they were evenly spread along the line, from one side of the Pass to the other.

There was a second, even barely one at that, where his eyes found the tiny, flickering candlelight that seemed to dance at the tip of the closest newcomer's staff. He realized then, with a strange sense of trepidation, that the staffs were not, in fact, staffs. Instead it was clear they were hollow, pipes of some sort.

Why did they seem so horrifyingly familiar?

"Battlemages, pick out targets among those new dark ones. I don't want-"

In almost perfect unison, the dark ones roared, but the roars themselves did not come from their masked mouths, but from the weapons they wielded. Khaok's words ended, less so by overwhelming noise than simple shock.

Waves of fire spewed from each staff, covering easily the dozen meters between the forces. The Orc's thick blood ran cold with dread as the watery flames washed over the front lines, and the wielders started hosing left and right, creating wide archs of fire. Flames from a mage's hand would only have caught on if they actually hit the man, but here the fire ran like water, seeping through every crack, every gap in the shield wall.

In the back of his mind, the very back that was not yet quite struck with terror, he recognized the liquids as Antivan fire, the very substance Cauthrien had told him of, and that they had themselves expended upon the Orlesian galleries. But to see it used like this, he had not been prepared.

The roars of the flames were quickly deafened out by the screams and wails of thousands of men, their clothes and flesh now caught aflame with sticky fire. They dropped everything they held and rolled on the ground, those spared from the flames caught between helping their fellows or holding the wall.

Holding, whatever remained of it. Even those that had not been directly struck were still caught aflame, as the fires splashed around like thick water.

"RETREAT! RETREAT BEHIND THE NEXT WALL!"

His bellows barely reached those closest to him, such was the overwhelming hell of screams and cries. He couldn't feel his skin, numb with dread as he had gone. Magical fire could not do this, at least not with such destruction as its result. This, this was fire that stuck to men, burning them even as they rolled on the ground and cooked in their plate. _Damn you Antiva, and curse you tenfold for ever concocting this sorcery!_

A horn sounded again, barely audible over the screams of the dying. Through the flames, Khaok now saw the Orlesian infantry advancing. Their fire-hoses had done their work.

The shield wall broke.

The _Legion_ broke.

* * *

 **So...yeah, Antivan fire-throwers are a thing. Imagine realizing that chemical fire burns worse than magical fire.**

 **Khaok is up shit-creek, and he dropped the paddle half a mile back, it seems.**


	40. Last Stand of the Malakathii

_"No army may enter that land_

 _that is protected by Legion's hand_

 _Unless you're a hundred to one_

 _The Malakathii will see you undone_

 _Undone!_ **"**

* * *

 **Last Stand of the Malakathii**

* * *

The air was filled with smoke and blood.

As the world was set ablaze around him, Legate Khaok found himself oddly devoid of fear.

Personal fear, that was, for it was not in the nature of an Orc to worry overly when the only true threat before him was that of death in battle. No, the only fear he truly felt was for the lives of his men. Orlais was already now advancing, taking every advantage they could get from the broken and retreating Legion.

He could barely even hear his own voices as he commanded the battlemages to throw spellfire at the enemy firethrowers. The world had become a muffled hellscape, flames licking the ground where it did not lick the smoldering remains of bodies. When the winds rushed through, ashes followed from those that had been struck directly by the liquid flames, and burned away to dust.

Not even three meters away, one of the Sarissa-bearers finally succumbed to the fires eating at his flesh, slumping from his crawl until he remained still on the ground. Khaok found himself strangely transfixed on the body, that had just now been a man, a Legionary under _his_ command. A fury bubbled within, at such arrogance, such disrespect, to kill his men with such base weaponry.

Orlais knew it could not win fairly.

So Orlais had no intentions of fighting fairly.

In what almost felt like a trance, he stepped over the corpse, even as flames continued to lick at the charring flesh. As men retreated around him and Orlais encroached not half a hundred meters ahead, he kicked up the pike from the ground, snapping it in half in the process before his fist clenched its shaft.

One step forward.

Two steps forward.

On the third step, his arm followed through, and sent the pike hurtling through the air as if flung by a ballistae. It struck the closest of the firethrowers in the gut even as he doused the bodies of the fallen in flames, the Orlesian infantry following close behind. When the pike ripped through not just his body, but as well the bulbous sack of oils carried by the man behind him, it did not even take the blink of an eye for the flames to spread.

Was there a scream, at all, as the ball of fire engulfed not only its would-be wielder, but also any who stood close? If so, the Orc neither heard nor cared. Instead he turned to the mess of a battle line the rest of the Legion was attempting to put up. Terrified and disorganized, they were being forced into formation all the same, as the Centurions screamed themselves hoarse, and let the stick loose on any who sought to retreat.

They needed time, more time than he could give them.

With his shield in one hand, he redrew his blade with the other, and caught his own reflection in the blood-stained steel. Had he already killed foes? He couldn't remember, only the screams of his men, and the flames devouring their flesh remained in his memory. All else was pushed back, forgotten now.

He knew what he had to do, now, if the Legion was to have a chance at readiness for the ensuing charge. Was he past his prime? Some might have said so, had he ever remained in the stronghold. There were no children of his line, but of his brothers there were. So, the line of his fathers would go on.

He could find himself content, with that.

Heavy trampling broke his focus, betraying the approaching Malakathii before he could speak. The Orc was covered in soot and blood, and flames flickered and danced from where the liquids yet pooled or stuck to the black armor. 'Black Orcs', some called them for this, a name they embraced rather than shunned. They were bred for war, separate from their kin.

They were the closest the Legion came to crafting and indoctrinating soldiers, their loyalty bordering on fanatism. They were big, too, bigger than him by at least a head's height, and broader as well. Muscle needed to swing the weapons they wielded.

"There are few of us left, Legate." His kin reported, voice heavy and ragged with exhaustion. Only his eyes showed through the slits in the thick steel. Around him, a dozen of their kin had gathered as well, and Khaok came to understand that it was true, that this was what remained; "But we stand ready."

"We're going to buy time for the rest of the Legion to reform." Khaok said, not an order; "It is not a task we will survive."

"Then it is the kind of task we're for, Legate." The other Orc snorted, hefting his maul; "Death or Glory!"

"For the Emperor!" Another bellowed, raising above his head an axe that could have cleaved a horse across the spin and still met the ground; "BLOOD IN HIS NAME!"

"Death and Glory, for the Emperor!"

" _Tumn nah-Gre'zok!_ " another bellowed, pummeling his chest with a gauntlet others could have used for helmet. The others chimed in, bellowing like oxen monsters the warcry of their people. 'Death to the enemy', Khaok had no doubt they would bring this, for the gods would know they already had; " _TUMN NAH-GRE'ZOK! TUMN NAH-GRE'ZOK!"_

The Malakathii formed up as a wedge behind him, at least for now retaining the senses to have their commanding officer lead the charge. He knew they would forget, soon enough, once battle rejoined. They were as real the tip of a spear as could be, of steel and beastial malice. Khaok jogged ahead of them, knowing he looked small by comparison.

"Oh Arkay, I will soon be standing at your doors. Guide me, for I will not know where to go." His voice was lowered as he strode forward, deafened out either way by the repeated chanting of his kin; "Oh Akatosh, watch over the Legionary, your servant upon Nirn..." with a small breath, a whisper almost, he added; "Talos, oh Founder, grant the soldiers of your Legions victory."

" _TUMN NAH-GRE'ZOK!_ "

" _TUMN NAH-GRE'ZOK!_ "

Khaok, even as he had picked up into a run in the final stretch, found himself overtaken as the Malakathii thundered past, the weight of their strides shaking the earth under his feet. The Legion had never since their creation earnestly attempted domestication of the northern mammoths.

The Malakathii, towers of muscle and metals, were far more cost effective.

Lost in their battle rage and bloodlust, they charged screaming at the enemy lines. Spears, pikes and halberds were leveled at them, even as it was clear that dread now gripped those Orlesians who saw themselves as their destinations.

" _Spears! Spears! R-raise your damn spears_!"

" _SPEARS! SPEARS!"_

A dozen soldiers had halted the advance of thousands. Khaok considered that a success.

" _TUMN NAH-GRE'ZOK!_ "

The warcry echoed one final time, before they plunged into the halted Orlesian front. When they hit, men were actually thrown back through the air, if not simply trampled underfoot as giants of steel and fury ran them down. Spears snapped like twigs, pikes shattering down the shafts, and halberds glanced away, sparks flying where they flaccidly bit at Orcish plate.

Then, the Malakathii started actually _fighting_.

When the great hammerblows came down, men disappeared. Shapes of iron and steel, the size of men's entire upper bodies would drive foes into the ground as a broken mess of flesh and shattered bone. Armor meant nothing when the impact was of such brutality. And they were delivered as fast as a common man might swing a carpenter's hammer.

When the great axes struck, they might as well have been mauls as well, for all that armor could hold against them. Khaok himself knew his own limits, and knew that he could, with a maul, cave in a breastplate no matter the quality of its making. But, it made him aware of his own limits, when he watched from the corner of his eyes his kin cleaving through steel plate as if it were linen.

It was becoming apparent that his presence was needed for little more than to be an anchor for the Malakathii. They were the true monsters of the Legion, far more capable of death-dealing than he could ever be. So, it was not with a sense of shame that he withdrew a little from the thickest of the fighting, though he was well aware that they were just about enrounded now. The wedge had worked too well, digging them too deeply into the enemy's ranks. There would be no escaping this fight, he knew. His heart was beating so loud, it sounded as if drums were beating.

When a foe did come close to him, he met the man head-on, beating down against his exposed knee with the edge of his shield. The man had expected a blow to the body, clearly, and sagged as the bone was skewered, before Khaok reverted his sword-grip and plunged the blade down the man's shoulder, through the organs within. A man who died quietly was somehow always more unsettling than one who died screaming.

Orlais' soldiers, even those who had previously cleaved through plate like paper, did not dare direct confrontation. Any man who struck at the Malakathii only did so when the Orcs' backs were turned. Even then, even a poll-axe's spike would leave little more than a dent, if that. And the attempted mischief was repaid with interests.

A flash of fire, and light, and one of the Malakathii stumbled to the ground a bit away from him, green, rot-wafting smoke wafting from the armor. Khaok's eyes lingered only briefly on the corpse, keenly aware now that the Orlesian mages were targeting them with spells of a whole different nature than before. The rest of the Malakathii picked up on it as well, their ire now more aimed, directed at whomever they saw to bear robes and a staff. Like bulls, they charged out, breaking the formation.

Khaok allowed himself to throw a curse the way of his men. He'd known they were likely to break formation, but had hoped against hope anyway. Even fanatic loyalty could not break the nature of the Orc. The only reason _he_ had yet to lose his temper...He was robbed of the string of thoughts, plowing his shoulder into the swing of an Orlesian blade. He broke the man's arm next, and knocked him to the ground with a meeting of armored foreheads.

Maybe he already _had_ lost his temper, and that was what had seen him to this, his final hill to die upon. A horn blew, but in the chaos of clinched battle, he couldn't make out where from, or if it was Legion or Orlais blowing it. He couldn't even tell if it was one blow, or multiple. It all just...flowed together, in this mess.

Again and again, Orlais came against him. And again and again, he carved them down or bashed them aside, leaving corpses at his feat. It was all muscle memory, drilled through so many exercises, through so many years.

Bash, stab, parry.

Stab, slash, bash.

Parry, bash, stab.

Stab, slash, stab.

Slash, kick, stab.

The melee became a haze, like that. Time itself ceased to matter, and there was only the moment in which the next enemy would come at him, and he would crush them. Numbers, ceased to matter as well. He no longer knew how many he had slain, only that the ground he held now was soaked in blood, and that his boots trod upon bodies more than they did mud.

He was only distantly aware of the wounds he himself was taking. A cut there, a gash here. The adrenaline, and the bloodlust, was too strong for him to feel the pain he knew they would inflict. But he could feel the shattered kneecap, with every step he took it made it harder for him to walk. It didn't matter, really. He knew as well he'd be dead on the ground before the adrenaline would have a chance at wearing off. A painless, warriors' death.

There could be no better.

"KHAOK!" the voice cut through his mind like a razor knife, cold and sharp. When he turned, it was to watch as an Orlesian footman fell apart at the waist, warhammer already raised to strike. Behind the man, General Cauthrien emerged as if out of the mud, covered in it too. He greatsword, wreathed in blood and fire, had buried its tip in the ground after the slash; "Where in our last discussion did you receive permission for suicide?!"

The horn blew again, and suddenly he _did_ recognize it. At least, he recognized that it was Orlesian, though the purpose he had only clues to. Cauthrien had not come to his side alone. By some work of the gods, or maybe even the Daedric Princes, it seemed she had rallied the rest of the Legion, at least the ones on this side of the camp. They crashed into the Orlesian lines like a tidal wave of steel and blood.

All of them, they seemed to be chanting words he at first did not comprehend.

Then, the first fireballs struck the Orlesians, yet not thrown by any mages under his command. The skies, instead, held the answer. Even then, as he watched them above, the chanting suddenly became clear to him, and filled his own, bloodied throat in the same breath of air.

"AVIATORII! AVIATORII!"

His bellows were loud, proud and filled with rejoice, for the sight was deserving of nothing less. From the skies, like birds of prey, the Aviatorii of the Empire swooped downwards, dragging behind them hails of fireballs and lightning. There were but twelve, but the destruction they laid upon Orlais made the barrage they themselves had suffered seem like little compared.

"AVIATORII! AVIATORII!"

Mass panic erupted amongst the foe, now caught between the pressing rear and the Legion's bolstered advance. Those spellswords amongst them, those who attempted to rally their forces and lead them forward, saw themselves immolated for their trouble. Whether the spells came from above or the ground, the Legate couldn't care less in this hour.

"AVIATORII! AVIATORII!"

The men's chanting was ceaseless and without breaking the rhythm. It was as _one_ voice, welcoming the Emperor's Finest to the field of battle. Even then it was nearly deafened as explosions rocked the world, the Orlesian formations spilling men and dirt into the air when artillery spells hammered the middle and rear of their forces. Away from the Legion, the spells unleashed were monstrous in harm and effect.

"AVIATORII! AVIATORII!"

There was no more beauteous thing, than to watch as the Aviatorii circled above, diving into the fray in pairs as if for show. They always worked in pairs, he knew that much. And whenever and wherever they dove, men either died or fled, and then still they mostly died. But it seemed, that the Aviatorii were not wasting spells on those who were already fleeing the field.

Others, maybe struck with the impossibility of such power, simply stopped fighting. Khaok found himself staring at Orlesians who simply sat down, their eyes distant and glazed as they turned towards the skies. Cauthrien too, had noticed, and was already making use of the sapped will to fight amongst the enemy. When she ordered for them to throw down their arms, those that could hear her over the explosions held little hesitation about doing just that.

The clatter of falling blades actually managed to, if for but a moment, deafen out the sound of spellfire. And as more and more of the army seemed to realize what was happening, and that the rear was no less lethal than the front, those that did not outright rout simply followed the examples of their frontwards countrymen, and dropped their blades upon the ground.

Khaok found himself staring at Gherlen's Pass, now thick with Orlesian soldiers who'd given up the fight. How many were there, he found himself asking too, trying to get an estimate. Twice their own numbers yet, at least, maybe thrice. Many of them hadn't even seen battle yet, most not even wounded. And yet, the dread of the Aviatorii had been enough for them to give up.

It struck him then, something that should have been impossible. A thought he'd not dared actually bearing hope towards before, yet now it was before him, plain as the day. And yet, he could only mutter this epiphany, whereas others were already shouting it to the skies.

" _Victory_."

The air was filled with smoke and blood.

The stench filled his nostrils, and the adrenaline was fading from his blood. Already he could feel a throbbing pain across his body, and it only grew hotter from where a warhammer had smashed his knee through the armor. It made his vision hazy, harder to see what was going on around him too. When he tried rubbing some of the haze away, his hand came back from his face, thick and glistening with blood. His own blood.

His wounds, Malakath damn it, he'd been bleeding this much?

It was getting harder to concentrate, to focus.

Movements growing sluggish, he clenched his fist, trying to will up the concentration to let restorative magic flow. Nothing came, and he palmed his side instead, seeking the little red flasks his belt would hold. Only empty straps greeted him, wet enough to betray the smashing of his flasks in the melee.

The agony in his leg was searing, nauseating through the fading of the world.

"...General..." he couldn't even hear his own voice now, or maybe he hadn't spoken at all? " _General_..."

Cauthrien turned, her eyes widening when she saw him. Her mouth moved, wide enough that he could tell she was shouting, yet...he couldn't _hear_ a damn thing. Only the thumping in his head, the beating of the drum that seemed as if it was slowing its pace.

Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision, and soon he could barely even see her at all. The pain faded, even if just for now, and a different discomfort crept in.

He was cold, _so_ _cold_.

" _...it's been an honor._ "

He did not feel the ground when he hit it.

* * *

 **Hello again~**

 **So, I have been on Cyprus for a bit of a field excursion, which meant I didn't exactly have a lot of time for getting this chapter out. So, I've done what I could with the notes I already had scribbled down, and I think the results are satisfying. Gods I hope they are.**


	41. A Break in the Lull

**Ahh, exams, I wish thee would die in a fire that never ever goes out.**

 **So, yes, I have not been on a hiatus by my own free will, nor have I had a writer's block. I've just been tortured for a solid 1.5 month. So, for those who thought I'd stopped the story, shame on theeeeee! Oh ye of little faith, and all that stuff. Though, honestly, it's kinda nice to know you're missed, even if just by a few people :)**

 **...also I'm going to annoy half the people who played Awakening in this chapter. And a lot of people who played DA2...I think.**

* * *

 **A Break in the Lull**

* * *

The supply train wasn't what slowed down the Tenth.

Veruin watched with barely hidden annoyance as the land-cannons were dragged from another pit of mud. The vaunted Imperial Highway was not in all places worthy of the fame, and centuries of neglect had left parts of it in disrepair, or just outright missing. Masonry had given way to dirt and grasses, or left gaping holes in the archways that needed bridging before the Legion could move.

"We should have been at least fifty miles further south by now." He muttered, shifting in the saddle. Hannibal was a good mount, better than he'd expected too. The horse was quiet and calm when need be, and knew when to simply stand still. At the same time, he retained a youthfulness that was welcome in the breaks. A warhorse with spirit, just as he liked it.

General Tullus was at the head of the formation, whilst the Legates rode up and down the kilometer-long column of men and mounts. At the middle of the procession as he was, Veruin could just barely make out both ends of the whole thing. A Legion on the march was in itself a force of nature, an unstoppable force that could become the immovable object when needed. Ten thousand Legionaries, such a number on the field of battle would be a stretch even for Imperial tacticians.

And Orlais apparently fielded greater numbers yet, an unnerving thought. His hand shifted somewhat unwittingly to the sheath on the side of his saddle, where the gifts he'd received from the General were locked in place with leather straps. Made with stocks of hard oak, and barrels of well-forged steel, a pair of shortened _fulminatae_ \- or 'thunderstocks' as the General referred to them as - rested there, ready for use yet unloaded. Personally, he was unsure of how much use such weapons would be, given how long they would take to prepare and how hard such would be from horseback.

Such curious weapons, truly. He knew, of course, how they worked. After all, Redguards had wielded cannons for ages, and the Empire had not been too long on the uptake. Still, it was a strange notion to hold a cannon in his hands, meant for gunning at men, rather than ships. An entire cohort's worth of men were equipped with these weapons too, the _Cohors Fulminata_ , as the General had dubbed them. They were the crossbow contingent of the Legion, but had seen their weapons replaced with these new creations.

He wondered, idly, if this was going to change the way wars were fought, or if these new weapons would simply be little more than a passing curiosity. Time, and the enemy, would tell.

* * *

There was something… _different_ , about Vigil's Keep.

She wasn't entirely sure what it was, though maybe the fact that it looked like someone had taken a dragon to the walls had something to do with it. Last time, the keep's outer walls had seemed in good condition, well-maintained and somewhat pristine, made from stone and timber. Now, said timber was still emitting smoke into the evening sun, though the downpour was making it hard to really tell, and the stone was blackened and covered in soot. As a matter of fact, the entire area directly in front of the walls looked like the sun had touched down. The ground itself was black and baked, and no vegetation remained.

And the charred bodies of Darkspawn that were strewn about in their hundreds like seeds from a farmer's hand.

So, Alma had _definitely_ been here.

"That's a lot of damage..." Cíada muttered, her mood soured by the weather. The elf was seated on her horse in that odd fashion ladies always did back home as well. Talia had never liked it, seeing as it was how she'd gotten thrown off so many times, and in turn developed her anxiety around horses as a general thing. The little mage made it work though, somehow. Talia knew _she_ would have slipped off, especially with the rain hosing them down as it was; "Looks like a dragon came through."

"I don't see any funeral pyres though." She hummed, taking it as a good sign. Fereldans didn't bury their dead, they burned them. And she couldn't see any signs of that having happened; "And all the smoke seems to come from the walls, not from within."

"Hopefully that means Alma came by before the defenses were breached." Aedan said, the tightness of his voice betraying not only his reluctance to give the old Breton credit, but also his concern for the resident Arl; "She's definitely been here, though."

Talia nodded, though regretted the act when it caused rivulets of water to run down her back, finding whatever seams and gaps were in the weave. Gods, she hated spring rains as much as she loved spring warmth. Ferelden apparently just seemed to have more of the former than the latter.

The portcullis to the outer bailey seemed intact, if scratched enough to get the point across that, yes, the Darkspawn _had_ tried getting through. There were still the odd arrow lodged in the wood, broken and snapped shafts protruding from the iron-clad beams. Guards manned the gate, both on the ground and in the gatehouse, revealing at least that people were indeed still alive within the walls. She noticed archers on the walls too, kettle hats poking over the scorched battlements. Probably they could not even tell who was coming, only that someone _was_.

"Halt, who goes there?" the voice was familiar, and almost made her laugh with the realization of how right she'd been.

"Urthemiel and all her minions." Aedan called back up, eliciting chuckled from those who recognized his voice, chief among them Nathaniel Howe himself; "Looks like you've had visitors, Nathaniel. I promise we're more well-disposed than the last bunch."

"Aedan! You're back early." The Arl laughed, before speaking orders to the men around him, too low for Talia to pick out; "What, Amaranthine not to your liking?"

"Was a little crowded, and pretty rowdy..." her husband responded, drawing dry smiles from their group; "Mind if we come in?"

Even as Aedan spoke, the portcullis rose up into the gatehouse, allowing them entrance. Talia gave Pebbles a gentle nudge, enough for the mare to know it was time to head inside, and find a nice, dry stable with warm hay. There was a stroke of gods-granted luck right there, that her mount had avoided the fighting by the stables within the walls being full, and the stable hands putting her in the ones beyond the walls. Normally, that would have required her to bitch at someone, because nobility and stuff. But, honestly, she couldn't be bothered. She'd even have thanked those responsible, if they hadn't taken to the countryside the moment the Darkspawn started crawling out of the dirt like oversized grubs.

Nathaniel met them all halfway in, descending the stairs with the ease of a man raised here as much as within the keep itself. He was in a coat of plates, though it looked more like he'd forgotten to take it off, rather than just now clad himself for war. Aedan dismounted, and met his friend in a firm embrace, then turned when Talia brought Pebbles to a halt. She slid off the saddle, into his waiting arms.

Honestly, she hoped he'd never stop being such a damn gentleman. It was definitely one of his charms.

"Your entourage seems to have grown." Nathaniel spoke again after having greeted her with a bow and a light kiss of her hand - and she'd no idea what to do with that - then allowed himself to be hugged by her, if somewhat awkwardly as part of her now protruded more than it would on Aedan. The young Arl was a likeable sort, she could admit that much; "Serah Maryon, I see you've been torn from your work?"

"I just...came to see if there was anyone in need of aid here." Brelyna answered as she dismounted, with far more grace than she'd any right to. Talia could - with reasonable certainty - swear the Dunmer had never ridden a horse before Ferelden. She _was_ still a little surprised to see Nathaniel hardly even blinking at the sight of the alabaster-skinned girl. Brelyna was getting better at socializing, it seemed.

"And you have my gratitude." The Arl nodded, turning then his eyes to the three new members of their party; "And speaking of reunions, we apparently have a great many today. Ser Ava, Ser Boris, I see your hunt has yet to bear fruit?"

"...not exactly." Ser Ava shook her head; "Could we perhaps adjourn inside?"

Nathaniel looked to the skies, as if he'd only just now realized the ceaseless downpour. At this point, Talia herself was almost numbed by the wetness and the constant drumming on her cowl, and barely even noticed but for when something would shift, and the wet fabrics were pressed against her. _Fuck me that's cold!_

"Yes, of course, this way. There's a fire burning and there's food and drinks for all." The Arl nodded, gesturing for them to follow, as miserable stable hands took the reins of their mounts. Talia gave Pebbles a last stroke before following the others in; "Wardens arrived from Denerim recently, I assume you are here for them?"

"Kinda..." she shrugged as they passed through the doors. Already the change was drastic, as cold and wet gave way for warm and dry, with scents of pork and ale wafting through the corridors. The main hall of most Fereldan keeps, it seemed, was literally just through the door. Back home they'd have been at least a room or two separated. Still, it was a welcome change all the same, even if they were dragging soaked boots all over the floor; "There's a Qunari, right?"

"Sten." Aedan supplied; "Big, broody, doesn't talk much."

"But eats like three men." Nathaniel chuckled; "Yes, he's one of them. Not entirely sure where he's gone off to though. He eats on his own, and so far I've no notion as to where. Other fellow's not much better, but he's at least human, so it's easier to read him."

"Is he here?" she asked, glancing about the great hall. Not a lot of people were to be seen, and most were minding their own business. The vast majority seemed content with standing around the fireplace, or quietly dining along the tables.

Even if there were no wounded or dead to be seen, it was clear the mood was still reeling from the attack. And, really, she couldn't blame them. The Blight was supposed to be over, Darkspawn had no business attacking anyone now, and not in such numbers. Nathaniel paused as he glanced about, a small frown on his face.

"He's over there, by the table in the corner." A vague nod was all it took for Talia to find their apparently newest addition. A young man, dark, messy hair and an expression that seemed incapable of smiling. He didn't seem to have noticed them yet, eyes on his food instead; "He keeps to himself so much I haven't even gotten a name out of him yet. Rumors go he was part of the Royal army once, but deserted after the slaughter at Ostagar..."

"Looks a bit young for a soldier..." Aedan remarked.

"Considering the crisis, I'm not surprised if the army was levying farmhands and boys like that..." Cíada muttered; "Ostagar was a shit-show, hands down. Can't blame the kid for making a run for it after that."

A thought struck Talia in that moment, and it was one she should probably have had the day Daveth decided to fuck off to wherever he'd gone to. They still didn't know, and it left them with the not so insignificant conundrum of trying to figure out, just who was in charge now. She tucked on Aedan's sleeve like a child, and it was probably damn amusing for the others.

"Aedan." She whispered.

"What?"

"Who's in charge?"

"Aww, he looks so broody..." Brelyna muttered, out of Talia's view.

"You?" the confused smile he gave her probably meant she'd sounded like she was talking about... _other things_ , and honestly it made her want to smack him. Again, he'd probably misunderstand that; "Me?"

"We were made Wardens at the same time, so who's the senior?" she hissed, not blind to the choking laughter of that damn Circle mage. Cíada was definitely making the best she could of the situation, _that_ much was clear; "...and yes, _otherwise_."

"Do we need a senior?"

"Don't we?"

"I don't know..."

"I think we do, usually..." she paused when she realized Aedan's eyes were no longer on her, but rather ahead. Also, Brelyna was no longer next to her, and those two factors combined really meant she had no right to be surprised, when her eyes tracked the Dunmeri girl, having already arrived at the table seating their newest addition; "...sure, why not."

Brelyna was probably the best ice breaker they had, in hindsight. Either the new Warden would freak out over her appearance, or her demeanor would melt even the iciest of hearts. It was a gift, really. Whether or not the girl herself even realized it.

"Hello~" Gods, what a _voice_. Talia refrained from groaning at the sheer adorableness it contained. Still being soaked and damp helped a lot. Although, it seemed to have less of an effect on the new Warden - and she really needed a name to slap on him - who regarded Brelyna for about as long as it took to nod a greeting, then returned to is food. _Damn...tough crowd. Hang on, Brelyna, I'm coming!_

" _Hellooooo_ ~" she put everything she had into that one, hoping to Dibella it would at least catch his attention when beautiful - if obviously pregnant - woman approached him like that. Then again, he'd already shrugged off the sexiest elf this side of...well, probably the planet, since Merrill was more of a cute appeal and...damn it, not the point; "So, are you the new Warden recruit?"

"Junior." He said, looking up from his meal. Talia nearly recoiled at the sight of his eyes, dull and devoid of the life and youth people like him really should have.

"...right." gods, he was worse than Aedan when they'd joined. Well, okay, no, but almost; "I am Talia, your new pseudo boss until the Warden Commander comes back..." he nodded, saying nothing; "I hear you're a soldier?"

"Yes."

"...you fought at Ostagar?" he nodded, barely meeting her eyes; "With the King?"

"Teyrn." There was neither shame nor pride in that statement, though she supposed it was fair. Loghain was... a difficult man to place, even with everything they now knew, or believed they knew. Had it been Loghain at Ostagar, or had it been the demon? Had it been Loghain issuing their arrest orders, or the demon? Howe was, ultimately, behind it all, though this wasn't a point she was keen on bringing up with Nathaniel in the vicinity; "I didn't actually get to fight."

"Because of the retreat." Seeing as Aedan had more or less given her the reins here, himself deep in talks with Nathaniel and some others that appeared either nobles or well-dressed servants, she was doing this her way. Which, admittedly, meant a lackluster display of tact; "What happened then?"

"We went back to Denerim. I realized the army wasn't going to help my hometown, so..." he paused, though she couldn't tell whether it was shame or just to ponder his choice of words; "I left."

"You deserted?" Brelyna mused.

"Can't desert an army that's deserted its king."

"Kid's got a point." Talia shrugged, seeing the Dunmer pout; "Where'd you go then?"

"Home." He muttered; "Wanted to get my family out of Ferelden, seeing as the army was content with letting the country burn."

"Where is your home?" Brelyna asked.

"Lothering."

Talia grimaced at the name. She'd tried not to think about that place, after they'd been through it. The people there, especially the Templars, had known the town would be razed, yet they'd stayed to protect the refugees. She'd been a massive bitch, back then, and hindsight caused her no little amounts of shame;

"It's gone now, was too when I got there."

"How _did_ you get there?" Cíada asked, openly curious; "Town's not exactly close to Denerim."

"I walked." he replied; "Stole a horse at one point. Darkspawn killed it close to Wulverton, so I walked from there again."

"...damn." the Circle mage hissed; "How're you even still alive? There had to be hundre- _thousands_ of Darkspawn in the southern Bannorns by then."

"...I still had my sword." He said, as if _that_ explained it all. Talia would have called bullshit, if not for the fact that Sten had actually picked him, and he'd survived the Joining; "And my crossbow. And I hid."

"...I'm sorry, about Lothering." she said, because really, what else could she say? "But, a lot of people were fleeing even when we were there. Your family could have too."

"Mm."

There probably was a saying, somewhere, about the difference between the quiet types, and then _this_ , but...honestly, she couldn't think of one that would fit. Their newest member made _Sten_ seem talkative.

"What is your name?"

"Carver." He didn't so much look up as his eyes somehow managed to glance about without his face lifting one bit; "I'd have thought Sten would have told you, or that crippled mage, Jowan."

"Information...has been a little vague, recently." Talia sighed, because damn that old crone for being a general hag, but at least she was capable of getting news around. Or, at least to them. Probably she wasn't acting as Ferelden's new courier service; "We only just received word of your presence here after fighting died down in Amaranthine."

"Wasn't the Blight supposed to be over?" Carver said, fixing her with a stare she couldn't read; "You're the one everyone calls the 'Drake of Denerim', and the 'Hero of Ferelden'...so, what gives? Why are there still Darkspawn running about, putting villages and people to the torch?"

So, it was probably disapproval. Not that she could blame him, entirely, really. The Grey Wardens had been in Lothering, and left its people for the Darkspawn. That, was the objective truth, no matter how she wanted to hold it up. The fact that they'd only been four Wardens back then was of little consequence to the history books, she knew that. Only that Lothering was now a blighted ruin, with the bodies of whomever had remained strung up in the trees.

And now, here sat one of its denizens, watching her like a ghost of Haven.

It left a knot in her stomach.

"It's still not... _entirely settled_."

"So why are we here?"

"Did you see what happened to the Darkspawn attacking the keep?"

"I _heard_." Carver said; "Couldn't see it from the bailey, but something massive turned them all to ash. Like a dragon, but...nothing like it."

"...yeah, that'd fit alright." Talia sighed; "A mage killed all the Darkspawn outside the castle, on her way to Amaranthine. She's the one who told us about you and Sten being here."

"And speaking of the big guy..." Cíada cut in, nodding in the direction of the fireplace. Talia turned, just in time to realize Sten had somehow positioned himself not even a meter behind her, and done so with so damn little noise that even _she_ hadn't picked up on it. Question was, then, was he getting better at sneaking around, or was she getting worse at hearing? Wasn't fair, really, she hadn't even been drinking.

"Sten."

"Warden." Right, he was still calling her that. Strange, she'd almost dared to think he'd have learned the whole thing about names by now, but...well, 'Sten' was also a title, so she wasn't really helping it here, was she? "Talia. "She could have hugged him, the big guy was learning! "I brought reinforcements."

"...I think reinforcements require more than _one_ reinforcing soldier, Sten." Brelyna hummed, a wry smile at the hulking Qunari; "It's good to see you again. Plate suits you."

"Hm. We are _two_ , that is plural." A grunt, really, but Talia was damn sure she could see the hint of a smile behind that stony mask. Even Sten could not help but warm to the Dunmer, so it was really only a matter of time before the same rang true for Carver; "I see your own numbers are scarcely greater."

"Hence we're here for _reinforcements_." Aedan mused, putting emphasis on the s at the end; "I've asked for meals to be delivered to a separate room. We'll talk there."

* * *

Half an hour - and some actual, honest-to-Mara warm food and well-brewed ale - later, the entirety of Ferelden's host of Grey Wardens (and a happily fed Cíada) was sat around on comfortable chairs, reclining best as they could with the mood being what it was: pretty damn somber, and Talia knew she was at least partially to blame for it.

Sten had been the first to speak, and what an amusing story that had been.

"So...you followed the trail of bodies." Aedan muttered, Talia noticing his eyes flickering between the Qunari and the newest addition to their merry band; " _Darkspawn_ bodies, and just... _found_ Carver?"

"Yes." Naturally, being who he was, Sten was not one to exaggerate the tale; "He was unconscious, and surrounded by fallen Darkspawn. I thought him a worthwhile attempt."

"Quite the pedigree..." the Circle mage hummed; "Don't normal people tend to, well, _die_ even in one on ones against Darkspawn?" it was a little funny, still, how Carver actively seemed to avoid the small mage's stare; "...and _you_ killed bunches of them. _Before_ being a Warden."

"So did we, Cíada." Talia pointed out; "Before our Joining...Still, it's impressive." She watched Carver, trying to gauge a reaction to the praise. There was none, the boy about as expressive as Sten had been, back when they'd pulled him out of that cell in Redcliffe. _Oh yeah, that was a thing...did Eamon manage to replace the door before he died? Has Teagan done it?_

Idly, she wondered what the Bann was doing these days.

"And now we have a crazed...what, _Mother_ , to deal with?" Aedan sighed, leaning back in his chair. It was strange to hold meetings of such import in rooms so obviously _not_ intended for anything but being cozy. Because, really, she couldn't imagine people usually went in here to discuss anything more serious than who wore what to which ball; "And some sort of Architect, whom we've no idea what or who is, or _where_ he is, for that matter..."

"Man, being a Warden's gotta suck..." Cíada hummed; "At least I don't have to go out there and get my ass killed by Darkspawn."

"Didn't stop you during the Blight, if I recall." Brelyna noted, eliciting a shrug from the smaller elf.

"Didn't say it was gonna now."

"Good girl." Talia smirked as the Circle mage's smile became a frown once she realized she'd been addressed like some sort of pet. Well, she _was_ \- sometimes - adorable, so it wasn't entirely wrong either; "Still, we've no idea where to find the mother..."

She glanced to the side when, out of nowhere and somewhat unexpected, the door opened. Soaked to the bone, and with hairs standing in all directions, the sole Khajiit in Thedas - that she knew of, at least - slogged in. The room fell silent for about as long as Talia needed to process that, yes, J'zargo _had_ just appeared out of goddamn nowhere. Silence ended when she stood so fast it knocked over her chair.

"J'zargo!"

The cat was given neither time nor room to escape before she wrapped her arms around him, lifting the luckily light-weight cat a few inches from the floor. Oh, he did struggle, no doubt feeling his dignity slipping away with every second she danced around with him in the air. But fuck it, she'd _missed_ him.

...also every part of her clothing that had been in contact with the Khajiit was now thoroughly soaked. Still, fuck it, J'zargo was here now. The mage-four was nearly complete again, and as complete as she knew it'd ever be.

"He's turning blue." Cíada noted, not without amusement.

"Talia, I don't think he can breathe." Brelyna pointed out.

"J'zargo cannot- _breathe_!" the Khajiit complained.

"I think you're right, he can't breathe." Aedan nodded.

"You are constricting his breathing." Sten said, devoid of emotion.

"...why's that cat talking?" Carver asked.

"Oh, that's J'zargo." Cíada explained, as if that alone would be enough; "You'll come to love or hate him. It's _always_ either or."

"J'zargo... _is_... _cho...king, damn it!_ "

Oh, she knew that. But, much as she was damn glad to see him again, there was just a bit of vitriol she needed out of her system. Lazy cat, preferring to slouch around in Highever while the rest of them went around risking their lives. She did let him down, eventually, feeling simply content that she'd gotten the message across just fine. J'zargo, for his part, looked like a wet cat caught in the laundry presser.

"It's good to see you again, cat."

"Likewise, though..." the Khajiit coughed; "...J'zargo could have done without such...welcoming embrace."

"Just no pleasing some people." She teased, smirking at her old friend. He wiggled his whiskers, his tail betraying settling agitation; "I'm guessing it's still pouring outside, eh?"

"Does it snow in Winterhold?"

"Oh you poor baby." Talia grinned, shaking her head at their antics; "How'd you even know we were here?"

"Hmm, J'zargo could not have simply found your scent?" watching a Khajiit smirk was always a curious thing, given that the upper lip was split in two.

"Bullshit." Cíada commented.

"Why is the cat talking?" Carver asked again.

"You're good, but not _that_ good." Talia hummed, because damn it alright his sense of smell was phenomenal, but not _this_ phenomenal. There was no way he'd managed to track them across northern Ferelden, and she doubted it was just a lucky guess.

"J'zargo met an old woman wandering the roads." The cat rolled on his heels, evidently amused. Talia, on the other hand, was not; "She mentioned you'd be here."

"...goddammit, Alma." Mundus would not permit J'zargo to have _actually_ met some entirely normal old woman. At this point thát much was a guarantee, and she wasn't sure what to make of the fact that she'd gotten accustomed to it. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to tear out the stress; "Right, well, it's great to see you regardless. Hungry?"

" _Hmmm_ mmm, you'd bring me something warm, I trust?" The cat hummed, dragging one of the unused chairs over to the table. He looked at the map spread out across it, eyes narrowing; "You are making plans, yes?"

"Aye..." Aedan nodded, pouring warm ale for the cat. An absolutely disgusting thing, in Talia's opinion, but it was a Fereldan thing, so she was giving it her best shot. Even if Imperial culture _was_ superior in a lot of ways, it wouldn't hurt to assimilate where she could; "You've heard of the resurging Darkspawn?"

"This one came across a few on the way, yes..." J'zargo hummed; "He'd thought them driven back underground with the death of the Archdemon..." when he turned her eyes to her, Talia could _taste_ the amusement; "Missed a spot, did you?"

"Laugh it up, Carver already used that line." She shot back, much as she knew it wasn't a proper argument, and sought to defuse the cat's smugness; "By the way, yes, J'zargo, this is Carver. Carver, this is J'zargo."

"Bemused." The Khajiit hummed, nodding.

"Confused." The human said, nodding in turn; "What... _are_ you?"

"J'zargo is a Khajiit." Brelyna explained where Cíada had failed; "Tamriel, our homeland, is inhabited not only by men and elves, but by beastfolk as well."

"And he is the first of his kin in Thedas." J'zargo noted, as a point of pride; "This one will be in the history books, he is sure of it."

"...and, the speech?" Carver asked, causing both the other College mages to smile. Talia still didn't actually know if it was a J'zargo thing or a Khajiit thing. The cat's eyes on the warm beverage before him, he didn't see the two mages shaking their heads at the question. Talia had long since learned to simply take it as another the Khajiit's curious traits; "...right, never mind then."

"Bashaar, we are losing track of the point, Wardens." Sten broke in, his voice as gruff and teetering on the brink of outright annoyance as always. Not that she could fault him, but J'zargo's sudden appearance had somewhat distracted her.

"Sten has a point." Jowan interjected before someone complained. A glance around betrayed Cíada closing her mouth. To have the former apostate wield power to silence a Circle loyalist was - even though she liked them both - pretty funny; "We have yet to determine even likely candidates for where the so-called Mother has her nest or...base?"

J'zargo cleared his throat.

"Nest." The Qunari said, shifting in the chair he sat upon, and the wooden frame creaked and complained, as if ready to crack; "Darkspawn do not build, they only grow, or ruin."

"True." The crippled mage hummed, though Talia thought it mostly for the sake of agreeing; "But we still need to find it." He looked to her, and to Aedan and Brelyna and Cíada; "Most of what we know comes from your meeting with this countryman of yours, Talia. She didn't tell you _where_ to find the Mother?"

"...no." which was really something she _should_ have, if the old bat actually wanted them to handle this. Her mood fell at the realization that Alma was probably just being a bitch again, finding some twisted amusement in fucking her over; "She didn't, and we've no fucking clue where to even start."

J'zargo cleared his throat again.

"Hairball?" Cíada quipped.

"J'zargo knows where to find the Mother." The Khajiit said, silencing the room. Talia stared; "...your looks of disbelief do little for my self-esteem."

"You've literally just learned about the Mother being a thing." The elf pointed out; "How in Andraste's no-doubt blessed knickers would you suddenly know _where_ to find her?"

"Alma." Talia spoke before the cat could, though he only nodded in confirmation; "So it _was_ her you met..."

"Mmmm hmm." He seemed entirely too happy with himself, as per usual; "She spoke of a place, though neglected to mention _where_ it was. The Dragonbone Wastes, a place where dragons go to die..."

"Honestly, Alma gets weirder and weirder every time she's mentioned..." Cíada complained; "Who exactly the _fuck_ is she?"

"No idea..." Talia said when realizing more than one pair of eyes were on her; "Really, I don't know. She's a Breton, and a pretty old one. And a Tongue, apparently, aside from also being... _affiliated_ with Hakkon."

"Oh I do _not_ like the sound of that..." the elf muttered; "That sounds like _way_ too much power in way too unstable a person. This is why the Circle harrows people..." There was a moment as the elf stilled, maybe realizing what she was saying; "Sorry, I didn't-"

"I know." She left it unsaid that a version of herself not even a year younger would have done things to the elf for defending the practice; "But she's been... _moderately helpful_ so far...This Dragonbone Wastes, anyone know where it is?"

"...it's ringing a bell." Aedan muttered, drawing eyes; "I don't know where it is, but I grew up with a lot of stories about, well, scary places like that. Mostly when...when _Nan_ would tell me stories."

"...and Alma _strikes_ again." Talia sighed. Honestly, at this point it was starting to look like the whole thing was a practical joke. With Alma being seated on some beam in the loft, giggling her saggy tits off. The image was equal parts funny and unsettling.

"If that's the case, it'll be here in Amaranthine... _somewhere_ , I think." Jowan noted, eyes rowing over a map she was pretty sure had been thoroughly rowed over multiple times already; "The Arl might know?"

"I'll ask." Aedan said, standing from his chair.

Talia watched him for a moment, trying to read her husband before he left, closing the door behind him. He'd been quieter, since the battle of Amaranthine. She wasn't yet sure why, beyond the obvious shock of suddenly facing down hordes of Darkspawn once again. In a way, she supposed they'd both thought the Blight to be over, that the Darkspawn were in the past, at least in such numbers.

Apparently, they were back at work again.

* * *

As the rain ceaselessly continued its assault on the world of mortals, a hooded figure approached the gates of Vigil's Keep. Wary from being taken by surprise by the party of Grey Wardens, the guards noticed the encroaching figure sooner than they had the Wardens.

Of course, that this one was carrying a torch was likely part of their success. Crossbows were readied, even if no one actually considered taking aim. One slip could see such a mistake end with innocent death. The guard sergeant leaned over the battlements, peering down.

"Halt! Identify yourself and state your business!"

" _I was sent by my Master.._." None of the guards could see the face of the stranger, hooded and cloaked as he was, for at least the voice made it clear it was a man, though he sounded horribly ill; " _He needs the...help of...the Grey Wardens. They are...here, yes_?"

"Darkspawn?"

" _...yes_."

"Yeah, of course it'd be..." he grumbled; "Fuck it, even with the Blight done with there's still vermin about. The Wardens are at the keep, come in."

" _It will be better that I remain here. I am...ill, and would not wish to infect."_

"...good man." He could respect that much, a selfless desire not to cause harm. Even if it meant standing out in the rain; "At least get under the gate, it's better than standing out in the rain like that."

* * *

When Aedan came back, it didn't immediately seem like he'd gotten the answers he wanted. At least, he was not as content as she'd expected him to be. Did Nathaniel not know where it was?

"You look like you've seen a ghost." Cíada was the one to point it out, though she went further than Talia would have; "So, Arl didn't know?"

"That's...Well, he's looking it up with the keep librarian, but it's not..." he blinked, as if chasing away thoughts. Maybe, the keep librarian of Highever? Talia _did_ remember him, though not his name. A kind elderly man, and those two student brats; "There's someone at the gates, asking for us. Asking for the Grey Wardens, I mean."

"Guards didn't let them in?" she asked.

"Apparently he didn't want to come in." Aedan shook his head; "Guard said he claimed to be ill, doesn't want to spread anything."

"That was thoughtful of him." Brelyna nodded; "But if he is ill, I could try helping him."

"Mmm." He nodded, opening the door again; "Still pouring outside though, so wear a cowl or something."

True to his words, the rain hadn't exactly ceased during their meeting inside. It was still pouring buckets, and Talia found herself having to cast a near-permanent ward above herself, in an attempt to at least slow down the rain enough that the water would flow off the barrier, rather than slip through it. Wards weren't meant for stopping physical impacts. And it didn't stop the courtyard from turning into mud and soaking through her boots. _Apparently I need new boots. Better write that up._

"Ser." It was the Seneschal of the keep who approached them as they neared the gate, his voice like a grindstone; "Just outside the gate, he's not moved since we notified you."

"We were told he was sick?" Aedan said; "What sickness?"

"Didn't say, Ser." The man replied; "What for?"

"...nothing, but...spread the word to have everyone keep their distance. Further the better." Talia would have asked the same, though the expressions shared by Aedan and Sten were enough for her to realize something else was going on. As the Seneschal nodded and left, her husband turned back to them, and looked to Sten. The Qunari only nodded; "There's taint nearby, likely our guest. Sten, Carver, Talia and I will go out there, rest of you remain here."

Gods, she hoped it wasn't a ghoul. She fucking _hated_ those things.

At the gates, at first they didn't see the one who'd come to ask for help. It was dark and it was raining, yes, but it still was harder than it should have been, and took several moments before they noticed the cloaked and hooded figure leaning against the outer wall.

"Who are you?" even as he asked, Aedan's hand was on the pommel of his sword.

" _You are...Grey Wardens? Yes, yes, I sense it, I do._ " The blood ran a little colder in her veins as the figure stepped out of the shadows, and into the dim torchlight. It was a Darkspawn, the same kind as the one Alma had killed in Amaranthine. The voice was inhuman, and yet not. Honestly she was going to add 'talking Darkspawn' to her list of things that should be set on fire at first glance; " _The taint, I sense it in you, I do. It is how I know."_

Aedan's sword was free of its sheath, and rested on the neck of the creature before she'd even noticed him moving.

" _Please, do not kill. Peace, I am coming with no bad intentions. Else I would not be alone, yes?"_

"Kill it, and be done with it by fire." Sten said.

"You're not the first talking Darkspawn we've met." Aedan's voice was cold and hard; "Last one led an attack on Amaranthine. Why'd we think you're any better than such butchers?"

" _I do not serve the Mother, no I do not. The Architect, he is whom I serve. The Architect does not wish more death, no, only the Mother's."_ if being held at the point of a blade fazed the creature, it did not show it; " _The Architect needs the Wardens, as the Wardens need the Architect."_

"Why'd we need the Darkspawn?" Carver asked, the anger in his voice hard to miss; "We need you and your kind like the plague. You're nothing _but_ a plague!"

" _The Architect wants no deaths, no. He wants us free, to free our race from the Song. You know of the Song, Wardens. It draws you to the deep once our taint grows too much inside you, inside your minds, yes."_ The creature's diseased eyes flickered to the blade caressing its throat; " _Some went mad without the Song. The Mother went mad, and turned others mad too. They do not wish to stop the Blight."_

"And we should believe that you do?" Carver seethed. He was trembling with fury, Talia realized, oozing with bloodlust. She could not blame him, not after what the Darkspawn had done to his home. And likely his family as well.

"The Architect. _..only wishes for the survival of us, not death of surfacers. Every Blight, many tens of thousands of us die against you. The Architect want no more of this, no more death."_ It was hard to tell who the creature was addressing, its eyes above their heads as if speaking to the skies themselves; " _But he cannot stop the Mother alone."_

"...how did you come to be free of the _Song_?" Aedan asked, his blade remaining against the creature's neck; "What is your Architect?"

" _This one, does not know how. It was not told to him, but...the Architect knows. He was the First of us, more than us."_

She didn't quite like the way the creature was putting emphasis on the 'more' part. A glance about betrayed she was not alone in that. The most sensible path from here would be to get what they could out of the beast, and then burn it. Darkspawn was Darkspawn, she didn't give a damn whether it could talk or not. And even if they were to actually mean it when the creature said their leader wanted no more Blights, that would only hold until the leader was replaced.

Darkspawn were savage and cruel, it would not be long before a peaceful leader was torn to shreds. For her part, there could be no lasting peace with those creatures. Even the Thalmor seemed reasonable and trustworthy by compare, and that was a pretty fucking damning statement if ever there was one.

"What do you mean 'more'? Isn't he a Darkspawn like the rest of you _filth_?" Carver asked.

" _No, the Architect is old, older than us. Older than the Song, we think."_ The beast licked its fangs, an unsettling view as a tongue longer than any human's ran up and down the skeletal teeth; " _But Grey Wardens also cannot kill the Mother alone. Together, we can."_

"Where is the Mother, then?" Aedan brought the creature's eyes back on him, and on the blade at its neck; "Get to the point."

" _The Mother's nest, it is north of here, in the low mountains where dragons go to die. It is not far from a great fortress, a tower of stone taller than any others. The Architect asks that I lead you there."_

"So, the Mother is at the Dragonbone Wastes?" there was a change to his voice, subtle, yet she could tell he was considering something. If the place had a name and was in the Amaranthine Arling, it was pretty likely that there were records of it. _Especially_ if it was full of dragon bones. The creature nodded eagerly, licking at its teeth; "A fortress north of here...only one I can think of would be Soldier's Peak...Carver."

"What."

"You've lost the most to the Darkspawn, of all of us." He had, hadn't he? Of all of them, Carver was the only one who'd lost family at the hands of the Darkspawn. He'd come home to what remained of Lothering, and likely seen neighbors and friends lying where they'd been butchered, or strung up in any trees left standing. She understood what Aedan was doing; "Do you think a chance for peace with the Darkspawn is worth trusting them? Do you think there could be Darkspawn actually desiring peace?"

Carver watched the Darkspawn before them, the creature appearing to do its best impression of a friendly smile. Did it even understand loss, or grief? There was not a hint of shame to be found, even with the knowledge of what its kin had done to the youth befiore it.

" _Peaceful Darkspawn_..." Carver spat the words, and she could hear his gloves straining as his fists clenched. Did the memories of his home pass through his mind, even now? Wasn't hard to imagine the burning sorrow, like a boiling poison in the heart; "We're Grey Wardens. We don't make peace with Darkspawn. _I_ don't make peace with Darkspawn."

"Talia?" Aedan's eyes turned to her.

"You're asking _me?_ "

"I'm asking you as a Grey Warden." He said; "Sten as well."

"It is a Darkspawn." Sten stated; "Kill it and burn it, it is how things should be. That it speaks makes no difference from what it is."

Her eyes were on the Darkspawn, for she was condemning it and to avert her eyes would be cowardice; "If I'd never seen the Blight, never seen what the Taint does to people, I might have trusted that Darkspawn could hold true to such promises. But you're monsters, intelligent or not. Peace would only allow you to grow until you'd run loose on the surface again, or overrun the dwarves and wipe them out. Carver is right, you are a plague upon the world."

" _But we are free of the Song, no be killing."_

 _"_ You killed Velanna's people."

Talia turned when Jowan limped his way towards them. Anger was etched in his face, a rare sight on the young mage. Her mind went to the elven guest Nathaniel was housing, and the story of how Velanna had been rescued. What pity she'd had for the Darkspawn evaporated.

"Jowan?" Aedan turned as much as allowed him to still keep an eye on the creature.

"Velanna's clan. She saw you, heard you! You praised the designs of the Architect even as you gutted her kin!" There was rare fury in his voice, an unsettling thing if not for the anger boiling within herself; "Women and children, butchered at your hands! Beast! Cretin! Murderous swine!"

So, Carver was right. There was no trusting Darkspawn when they would murder and pillage whilst speaking of peace. She didn't need the others to speak before setting the creature ablaze. Jowan remained where he'd managed to force his legs to bear him, watching with cold eyes as the Darkspawn stopped moving.

"...there. Even with the rain, that should take care of it."

* * *

 **Whether or not to kill the messenger, that was a decision I've mulled over for some time. It is, I think, easy for us to be detatched and rational, and realize things we know by the gift of hindsight. It is less so for the people dragged through what was essentially the Bubonic Plague on super-roids.  
**

 **Hopefully I can return to my normal shcedule now.**


	42. The Reinforcement

**Ah, to be back at it again. Honestly it's hard to put into words how much I missed having the time to sit down and type down anything that wasn't a thesis on the climatic oscillations of the northern Atlantic ocean.**

 **And, honestly I cannot blame those who lost interest in the story in the break. I will continue to write, and hope to hear from those who yet remain.**

 **That being said, let's commence on the next chapter, and no, the singularis title is no typo.**

* * *

 **The Reinforcement**

* * *

"General."

General Tullus Gratianus of the Tenth Legion turned from the map he'd spread over the collapsible table. In the entrance to his tent, the newly minted Tribune Mallin stood at attention, awaiting his permission to enter. He waved her in, aware that even in the torchlight, her expression was not one of confidence. The woman was anxious, he could tell as much.

"At ease, Tribune."

"Sir." Though she relaxed her stance as requested, it was clear she remained as tightly coiled as a spring nearing its breaking point. He'd seen this before, when officers came forward with complaints, or to beg forgiveness for incompetence in the field. Tribune Mallin has displayed no incompetence, rather the opposite against the Darkspawn, so he had to assume it was the former; "Requesting permission to speak, Sir."

He eyed the woman, best he could as he contemplatively ran his fingers along the end of his beard. Her sword was not in its sheath, which was a violation of conduct for officers in wartime camps. It struck him as a deliberate action more so than forgetfulness.

"Granted." He nodded; "What can I do for you, Tribune?"

Strangely, she did not immediately speak. Anxiety and hesitation, had she done something she feared repercussions from? He'd had no reports from any of the Quastors, and the officers who'd served with her at the Battle of Laysh only had praise to offer.

But, then, they viewed her as something akin to a Saint, a living one at that. Saint Iron-Arm Idoria, they called her. The name had caught on, much to the Tribune's obvious discomfort. It was good, at least, that Veruin's judgement of her character seemed dead-on. Then again, such was the wont for any who dealt with the Legate.

"It is...not...I..." He raised a furry, bear-like brow at the officer's stammering. This was new, certainly, and seemed to actually warrant some curiosity; "Sir, you are aware of my situation, as things _truly_ are, yes?"

"I am." Left unsaid was that he strongly disapproved and - had she not done what she did for the survival of the Cohort and the town - normally such actions as pledging fealty to Daedric Princes was beyond the pale of what the Legion could tolerate. Dunmeri Legionaries were exempt, for obvious reasons, but at the same time they also were so rare that he'd never personality experienced the problem. Not until today; "But you seem in control of your own actions and speech. And the men find courage in believing you a saint, if you mean to ask why I have not levied punishment upon you."

It was hard to tell if he had struck upon the problem. Silence reigned for seconds as he waited for the Tribune to speak, and she in turn seemed uncertain of how to do just so.

"But you have not come here to seek assurances from the consequences of your actions, I sense." He said, when it was clear she would not speak without prompting; "What troubles you, Tribune Mallin?"

"Sir, I..." she held her tongue, averting her eyes from his; "When I joined the Legion, I swore that I would serve until death claimed me. And that if I failed in my duties...Sir, I believe I am currently failing in my duties."

"...how so?"

"It is...the closer we move to Orlais, the... _voices_ , in my head, inside they... _She_ demands I perform my task." The Tribune grimaced, Tullus taking the moment's worth of time her eyes pressing shut gave him to move a hand behind his back, loosening the strap for the dagger he kept there. Just in case. When Daedra were involved, the _just in case_ often ended up the outcome; "It only gets worse the further we march... _each step_ I take, it gets... _louder_."

"Meridia." He frowned, staring at the air above the Tribune's head as if the Daedric Prince would materialize. He wasn't quite sure what he would do if such actually happened; "She is attempting to command you?"

" _Threatening_ to take me over, Sir." There was mirthless humor in the Tribune's intake of breath; "Daedric Princes don't attempt. They just _do_."

"Because you have not performed your task." It was somewhat a question, yet he didn't voice it as one. _He_ was the authority here, not some Lady of Infinite Energies. Damn the Daedra and all their ilk; "What task does she wish you perform?"

The sudden stiffening of the Tribune's body was all the warning he got that she was no longer in control.

" _Cleanse this land of the Blight."_

The voice was inhuman, beyond what he could have imagined. It was beautiful and terrible of equal measures, like the perfect storm. Tullus felt the hand around the handle of his dagger grow slack and fall to his side, something greater than fear staying his hand.

"Meridia." There was only reluctant reverence in his voice as he addressed the...the _being_. The Daedric Prince making use of his Tribune's body as its vessel; "So you finally deign to present yourself before your vessel's commander. Was Kratorius too scary?"

" _Mortal."_ He could not tell if the Prince greeted him or merely stated what he was; " _You ought be pleased with yourself, or your Legion I care not which. She holds great loyalty towards you, enough that death was on her thoughts rather than disobedience towards you._ "

"I'll be pleased once she's free of your influence." He knew it to be a weak response, but much as most knew General Tullus of the Tenth as a man of vigor and youthful brashness, he was not so foolish as to think he could contend with Daedra; "What do you wish from me?"

" _I have no care for your opinions, mortal. She, however, fears for her place in your Emperor's Legion. She pledged herself to me as well, however."_ He was tempted to argue that it had been as she was literally laying on death's door that such a pledge had been given, but knew better. The Daedric Prince would not give a damn about the circumstances; _"Last a mortal pledged themselves to me, the gifts I bestowed were abused for the sake of conquest and war. In her quest for victory, she left alone the undead and the bone mongers, who defiled my authority with their desecration of the dead."_

"I do not care for your former slaves, Meridia."

" _Have care not to insult me, mortal."_ He could feel the blood freezing in his veins, uncertain of whether it was primal dread of such a being, or the being itself doing it to him; " _I will not once more tolerate such abuse of my blessings. Give my Champion leave to cleanse the land of the taint that festers in its soil, for it offends me and so she swore. Be grateful that your permission is asked, but know she will do as tasked no matter your say."_

Tullus tried not to glare at the Tribune when Meridia's presence vanished once again. Veruin should have dealt with this at the very start, tearing up the corruption like a diseased bush. Now, it was too late to simply uproot the problem. The men revered her, finding strength and courage in her presence. By the gods, he _hated_ Daedra.

"...and they wonder why the Legion doesn't even allow worship of the _good_ Daedra." His voice was granite and gravel, his fingers pulling strands from his beard in frustration; "Apparently, I am told you are to receive a leave of absence, Tribune Mallin."

"S-sir?"

"...Much as it grates on my pride, I know when I am beaten." He sighed, rubbing at his brows; "I am giving you a temporary leave of absence, Tribune. Go and do... _whatever_ it is Meridia commands you to...within reason. I will expect reports on your progress and activities to be delivered either at Laysh or Hossberg with regular intervals. Failure to do so will be met with the punishment any _sane_ General would have levied upon you from the very start."

"General, I cannot just _lea-_ "

"You damn well can, Tribune." He left behind no room for argument with his tone; " _You_ decided to pledge yourself to that being, so now _you_ have to play along with its machinations." He turned and leant against the table, wishing the whole mess would just go away; "I am giving you a chance others would not, Tribune. Make the most of it, so I'll be convinced to allow you back once you're done."

He waited until she was gone before he allowed himself to sink into one of the field chairs, face buried in his hands. A long, suffering groan was all the complaining he allowed himself.

But by the gods, he _hated_ Daedra.

* * *

The keep library was not as large as that of Highever, though still grand enough to signify its importance, and the status of its owner. Like the library in Castle Cousland, it was walled with shelves of precious books, each bound with beautifully ornate leather, and a few even with carved wood or dyed skins. Candlesticks of brass stood around where they could provide illumination not offered by the single, wide window of the room. And like the library of Castle Cousland, it had its own librarian as well, a Chantry scholar no less. Only one wall was devoid of books, its surface instead bearing a map of the Arling.

A project of both details and beauty, it seemed as if every effort had been made to achieve as precise and detailed overview of Amaranthine. She'd seen the map on the wall in the Royal Palace, but where it had depicted only a couple dozen villages and towns in the Arling, here there were hundreds of villages and hamlets, too many to properly count, and each with minutely scrippled names above or underneath. Every forest and pond and river was displayed too, and every fort and keep and castle, though of the latter there really only were two; Vigil's Keep, and Soldier's Peak.

"South of Soldier's Peak, you say?"

Nathaniel tapped his finger on the latter, a small painted square barely the size of the tip of her finger. The Arl had not taken well to the news of a Darkspawn arriving at his gates, though he appreciated that it was now little but cinders. Talia wondered if he would have struck the creature down himself, had he spoken with it. She still ran the conversation through her mind, a small voice at the back of her skull asking whether it had been a just action, or if they'd killed the bastard simply for being a Darkspawn.

Then another voice reminded her of what the Darkspawn who claimed to strive for peace, had done to the Dalish clan Velanna had belonged to. No one had told the elven woman of their brief visitor, Nathaniel and Jowan both arguing that it would do little but bring back painful memories. It had, however, made the Arl suggest they spoke with the Templars of just how they'd come across the elf.

They hadn't yet, though Talia suspected it would not be a pleasant conversation.

"There are not a great many other fortresses in Amaranthine." Aedan pointed out.

"True enough, and the fortress itself was recently reclaimed for the Crown." Nathaniel nodded, turning an eye on Talia; "I've heard the Legion has moored its flying ships there."

"News to me." She shrugged, aware that her status as Imperial probably made the Arl assume she knew of all the Legion's dealings; "We did encounter Legionaries on the way to Denerim, I just assumed they were redirected once the war began...any news on how it's going?"

"None yet, though I last I heard the army from Highever was marching on the River Dane. Weeks-old news, I'm afraid."

"Is there a garrison in Soldier's Peak we could ask for assistance, then?" her husband asked; "We know next to notion of the Darkspawn numbers at the nest."

Left unsaid was that _she_ was next to useless as was, currently. Pregnancy meant she didn't fucking dare shapeshifting. There wasn't even the temptation to test it out. Of course, she was not useless entirely. It'd have been a pretty fucking sad statement if she was, considering she'd grown up with magic of her own _before_ Hakkon was even a thing.

But there was still the dread, deep in her bones now, of risking her unborn child. They hadn't even yet settled on a name, maybe because in some way doing so would be the final straw, to realize and come to terms with what was ahead. It was a mess, really, like so much else in her life. _Their_ life.

"Brother Grimard?" Nathaniel turned to the librarian.

"A skeletal one, at most." The old man muttered; "Half a hundred or so soldiers there, mostly guards from Amaranthine and the keep. When the fortress was reclaimed, it was crucial it not fell into the hands of bandits and brigands."

"Fifty men won't make that great a difference if the place is swarming with Darkspawn..." the Arl sighed, running a hand through his hair; "And we're dreadfully undermanned here as is, a great deal of men were lost to the Darkspawn."

"I didn't think the Darkspawn got through here?" Talia pointed out.

"They didn't, but we sent out patrols to the nearby villages and settlements when Darkspawn started shooting out of the ground like worms after rain." The young noble grimaced; "Not a lot of them returned."

"So...you're saying we have a resurgence of Darkspawn, and we're screwed for people to actually fight it?" Nathaniel didn't reply but a slow nod, making her toes curl with frustration; "Fucking fantastic. Really, amazing timing for those goddamn Orlesians to launch a war. We didn't need all those soldiers. At all."

"We faced worse odds in the Blight." Aedan pointed out; "Especially close to the end."

"I could turn into a drake close to the end." She didn't even glare at him so much as at the map, as if doing so would make the entire mountain range - and by extension the Dragonbone Wastes - explode. Or, at least burn. As long as it took care of the problem; "What's the plan then?"

For a long moment, Aedan did not speak. She wasn't exactly sure when he'd started taking on the mantle of leading them, but since Daveth had fucked off to who-knew-where, he'd done it more and more. She'd have said leadership suited him, if not for the fact that she really couldn't see a way out of this one, and doubted he could either.

"We're going to the nest."

Or, maybe he could. It just so happened that the way he apparently saw out of it seemed to involve dying. She knew they both wanted out of the Wardens, but...this wasn't how she'd intended it.

" _Not_ to fight." He added, probably realizing people were staring at him. Carver just looked mildly annoyed, which was about the most positive expression right now; "We need to know how many of them there are. Once we can't get any closer... Talia, anything your Familiar sees, you see when he...well, _disappears_ , right?"

"That's...well, _yes_ but..." It was a hard one to argue against, actually. It was mostly her personal distaste for the destruction of her Familiar that held her back from agreeing, knowing she would feel the pain. It was why she'd almost never called the wolf-spirit out when Darkspawn were near during the Blight. The dwarves in particular hadn't been all too keen on her having spectral wolves around...Actually, that did give her a thought; "What about the dwarves?"

"The dwarves?" Nathaniel frowned; "You'd go all the way to Orzammar?"

"Well..." damn it; "I mean, they're not involved in the war, are they?"

"...true, they're remaining neutral, much as I'd like them not to." The Arl sighed.

"M'lord, there is something..." the librarian spoke up, his voice dry and hoarse, likely decades of tutoring and yelling at children had done that.

"Yes?"

"News did reach us, a week past, that the Dwarven expedition has successfully reclaimed the ancient thaig of Kal'Hirol." He murmured; "It would not be impossible that they retained a sizable force there. Some rumors even speak of golems."

"Kal'Hirol?" Talia asked.

"Orzammar isn't the only dwarven Thaig under Ferelden, just the only one to resist the Darkspawn." Nathaniel explained; "The Queen of Orzammar recently sent an expedition to the old Thaig, with the intention of reclaiming it. They passed underneath this very keep on their way there, of all things."

"...underneath the keep?" Aedan frowned; "You mean to say there's a Deep Road highway right under our feet?"

"Mmm." He nodded; "My... _father_ , discovered it by accident when I was a boy, when expanding the wine cellars. We only realized the expedition force was passing underneath when one of their scouts was caught pilfering bottles from the cellars."

"...yeah, that's just confirming the stereotypes, right there." Talia sighed; "So, there's an entrance to the Deep Roads from your wine cellars?"

"Yes. Apparently it stems from when the keep was just an outpost for the Avaar, of all people." A small smile crept onto the Arl's face; "The world often works in curious ways."

"Going to Kal'Hirol _would_ mean we could get help." Aedan agreed, rubbing a the back of his hand over his eyes; "...damn it, I'd actually hoped for a night's rest."

"Take it." Nathaniel said, shrugging; "The expedition sealed some massive doors after they went through, just west of here, and if they've taken back Kal'Hirol it must mean they've cleared the Deep Roads of Darkspawn from here to the Thaig. I'll send runners to the Thaig with your request for assistance, and you can rest here in the meanwhile."

She looked to her husband, not really blind to the conflicting emotions he was probably dealing with. She felt it too, that the notion of rest was an unwelcome and awkward one while others did for them what they themselves should be doing. Aedan finally relented;

"...we'd gladly accept your hospitality, Nathaniel."

"And here I'd worried you'd be stubborn about it, M'lord." Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief; "Rest aside, you can't go against the Darkspawn in your coat and trousers...or robes, in your case, M'lady. Are you without armor?"

"...we didn't exactly expect the trip to Denerim to end up like this." Talia shrugged, letting it remain unsaid that they'd gone to Denerim to preside over _Nathaniel's_ trial. It seemed in pretty bad taste, all things considered; "So...yes, kinda. It's back in Highever..."

"I see." He seemed to almost find it funny, the bugger; "That being the case, I can have a messenger dispatched for it at once, or you can help yourselves to the keep's armories. Can, even if we send for your armor, really..." the young Arl rubbed his neck; "It would probably be a sound idea to send a report to Denerim, actually. Brother Grimard?"

"I shall see to it, my Lord."

"We appreciate it, Nathaniel." Talia smiled.

Honestly, gambeson, a chainmail and some proper plate and she'd be happy as could be. And, the blade Alma had given her. She'd asked the keep's smith about it, before going to Amaranthine, who'd scoffed at her idea of what it was called. Mostly, because it _wasn't_ called anything. The weapon was a design the man had never seen before. _Go figure, really._

That had to mean it was a custom order, probably. She remembered Father would occasionally order such things, decorative weapons made for hanging on walls more so than fighting. And, in this case, that probably meant it needed a name. The thought was a little funny, considering how old-fashioned such traditions were. Swords were named back when steel was first becoming widespread, and swords of this metal were considered near-mythical. Now, only those who never raised a blade save for showing off would name their weapons.

Would it be pretentious if she did the same?

That night, sleep did not come easily. Thoughts of the fight ahead, no idea of how great or small a force of Darkspawn would greet them at the Dragonbone Wastes, lingered in the front of her mind, much as she did her best to dispel them. Doubts, too, of whether slaying the messenger from the Architect had been the right thing to do.

Morally, definitely it had been, but whether or not it had been wise was another thing entirely. There was a risk, a real risk, that they could have had help from the Architect otherwise, a path she suspected was now somewhat... _closed_ , due to their killing of the messenger.

At the same time, the things Ser Ava had told her after the meeting in the library, once she inquired with the Templar, had set her mind into a storm of conflicting emotions. Velanna had _killed Legionaries_. Soldiers of the Empire, slain by her magic even if not by the elf's own volition. They had been from High Rock, at that too, kinsmen of hers killed in brutal and horrific ways. By Velanna. Men who had pledged themselves to serve and protect the citizens of _her_ homeland, murdered by the plots of the Darkspawn. And they had not been alone in that fate. Even though she was trying to leech some comfort from Aedan's body, his arm around her abdomen, it wasn't really working.

She just...couldn't make it fit.

The Darkspawn spoke of peace between their factions, yet at the same time they slaughtered innocents. Why? What was the point, if not deceit? These were Darkspawn who could think, they could not claim ignorance of their actions, and they were free of the Archdemon's song. They were acting for themselves, and if their first actions as free...creatures, were to butcher innocents, then it did not look promising for the future.

She felt him stir, and knew she'd probably done something to wake him up. With the news of the day, they'd simply gone to sleep without the energy for anything more. Now, she was wondering if that had been a mistake. Maybe it would have helped to bring her mind onto happier things. She felt him shift, the arm over her belly sliding over her skin. Inside, their child. How big was it yet, she wondered? Was there already a heart, beating blood through the tiny body?

She was nearly through the third month now, and it had become all but impossible to sleep any way but on her back, unless Aedan was next to her. Her husband, and love, and the father of the child growing inside her. The man she'd chosen of her own accord.

Those, at least, were uplifting thoughts, and brought a small smile to her face.

"You've grown a little bigger." His mouth was at her ear, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. It made her shiver with delight, and warmth at his words; "And it's just the third month. You're going to end up enormous by the ninth, dear wife."

"Are you calling me _fat_ , dear husband?" she retorted without mirth, though she could not quite hide the giggle from her tone. Motherhood, huh? Her own mom had always called it an adventure and a trial far harder than any she'd ever been on before. Considering what Talia had recently come to know of her mother's actual abilities - and thus how she'd probably honed them - that wasn't really a _low_ bar, by any means; "Because if so, the couch is over there."

He chuckled at her words, pressing his chest against her back. Talia closed her eyes, relishing the warmth and the comfort. It drove away the dark thoughts, at least for now, and allowed her to rest in the knowledge of what they had become.

"...if it's a girl..." he started, and had she been a fully-fledged elf like Brelyna, her ears would have perked up at the words; "...how about Aela?"

"Aela?" she weighed the name, not immediately able to dismiss it. It was a thinly veiled merging of their own names, she recognized that much, but...it also wasn't terrible. It sounded like her sister's name. _Aela Cousland, Aela Aulus?_

"Mmm." His chin was rummaging through her hair, his breathing tickling her neck; "Unless you think _Alma_ a better choice?"

She would have smacked him for that one, if she wasn't so damn cozy right now. Instead she just scoffed, blowing some hair around her head to hit him, maybe. He chuckled at her reaction, and tightened the embrace a little.

"... _Aela_." she smiled, actually liking the name; "Lady Aela, of the most noble House Aulus and Cousland..."

"I'd not thought _that_ far."

"Mmm..." Talia hummed, eyes closed in bliss; "It's not a bad name."

"So...Aela, then, if it's a girl?" Aedan spoke softly, caressing her naked skin. Every little hair stood at his touch. She would have answered him, had sleep not claimed her first.

* * *

"...and of the Tenth Cohort, sixty-eight men dead. One hundred and four men in need of long-term medical attention, with some twenty-four too injured to return to full duties."

Belisarius rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the casualties of the battle. With him, in the room, were King Fergus and Queen Anora, looking as unsettled as he now felt. Gods, such casualties. Orlais had proven a meaner bitch than he'd thought, and brought to bear weapons he'd never even considered, much less expected. Nearly a quarter of the Legion had been wiped out, and well over half of what survived was laid up in field hospitals.

Out of five thousand men, just barely above a thousand could still perform to standards.

"...dismissed." he waved off the immunes scribe, waiting for the man to be gone before he allowed himself to sink further into his chair. His own injuries could barely compare to the pain of such losses, and while the Legion was meant for attritional warfare, there was a point at which the losses grew too great for any potential gains; "...gods..."

" _So many dead._.." Anora muttered, wringing her hands.

"Almost as bad as the battle of Denerim..." Fergus sighed, a long and suffering sound from the monarch; "Maker's Breath, and Orlais probably has twice the men in reserve. It'd take the Maker himself to prevent Gaspard from simply sending in fresh forces to finish off what remains."

To the bone and core of his being, Belisarius wanted to argue what the King was saying, yet found he could provide little in the way of argument. The last report he'd received on the Tenth put Tullus still north of the border with Orlais. If Gaspard even _knew_ of the advancing forces from the north, he would still have time to invade Ferelden with a fresh force _and_ turn his gaze northwards.

Orlais might be smaller than the Empire, but if Gaspard called the Emperor's bluff on the threat of total war...then, that would be it. He could see no way in which they could resist a renewed Orlesian invasion force.

Even the Aviatorii would run themselves into the ground in the attempt. All the same, he had to put them at ease, if just for now.

"General Tullus and the Tenth Legion are about to enter Orlais from the north." He reminded them; "Once they do, Gaspard will have nothing else in mind but to stop them before they reach Val Royeaux. In the meanwhile, we rebuilt what forces were lost." Of course, that too brought with it issues all of their own; "...I am afraid Fereldans will have to fill the shoes of the men the Legion lost."

"Are they ready?" the King asked; "It's not yet been more than two months since they began their drills under your officers."

"For field battles?" Belisarius shook his head; "No, they are not ready. But they won't be tasked with winning field battles. Just with holding Gherlen's Pass against Orlesian forces, and even without our drilling, your forces would know how to do that. Legate Constanta will take her forces to the Kincaster crossing and hold there. Meanwhile the rest of the Legion will consolidate at the Pass along with any Fereldan reserves."

"The Aviatorii?"

"General Cauthrien has ordered an outpost erected midways between Gherlen's Pass and the crossing, arguing it better to have them able to respond to both. I am inclined to agree." He left it unsaid that the notion of others making decisions about _his_ Legion _did_ irk him somewhat. It was left unsaid because the decision was a sound one; "Meanwhile the airships will remain anchored at Soldier's Peak until needed...unless there are objections?"

"...none from me." Anora sighed.

"Nor here." Fergus shook his head; "Though there _is_ something, yet I'd rather not bring it up before we are done with this."

"Little more either of you can do, I fear." the balding - or rather, just bald. The explosion had singed away what hairs he'd still held on to - Imperial muttered; "There was the issue of the Orlesian prisoners of war, however. Gaspard has not yet sent word to purchase their freedom."

"He won't, if he thinks he can win Ferelden by force of arms." The King said darkly; "We've done little to dissuade him, I dread. And Ferelden is not even safe yet within."

"The Darkspawn?"

"They have reemerged, it seems. Amaranthine Arling is the worst hit, and the Arl requests reinforcements to deal with the problem at its source."

"Nathaniel Howe, yes?" Belisarius asked. He remembered the young man well enough, too young, maybe. The duties of nobility were oft strenuous, even in the best of times. And these were hardly what he would dare describe as the _best_ of times; "What source?"

"It is why I spoke up when you mentioned Soldier's Peak." Fergus started; "Apparently the Grey Wardens are currently gathered at Vigil's Keep with the Arl, and have managed to track down the source of the Darkspawn to the Dragonbone wastes."

"I am not familiar with the place." The Imperial said.

"Not a great many are." The Queen said; "It is not included in most books on Ferelden, nor even those pertaining to Amaranthine. It is an old place, older than Tevinter reign in Ferelden. It is one of the few places in Thedas dragons have chosen for their final resting places, hence the name."

"Where exactly is it?" he turned his eyes on the map of Ferelden, eyes rowing over the Arling in question; "I see no mention of it on your maps either."

"South of Soldier's Peak, in the mountains between Highever and Amaranthine." He turned to the Queen as she spoke; "Father used to speak of it whenever Tevinter was mentioned. Their mages frequented the place for the sake of the bones there."

"Little else to do, I suppose." Fergus muttered; "However, as it stands the Crown has precious few forces to dispatch."

"The same holds for the Legion." It was not a comforting notion; "The airships spent their bombs over Denerim, and we cannot manufacture more in Ferelden. At the moment they are good for little but observation."

"...I figured as much." The King rubbed at his brows; "Then we can only hope Orzammar can provide some modicum of assistance. Its Queen promised as much."

"Orzammar is not too far from the front line." Belisarius muttered; "It will be faster to send a messenger from the Pass to Orzammar than if you were to send...how _do_ you communicate across the land? It occurs to me I do not know."

"Messenger pigeons." Anora said; "Or couriers, depending on the urgency."

"I see..." Not a poor system, by any means, and he could scant have devised one better without extensive use of magic. It was, however, magic that made the Legion's communications that much more effective; "What of the dwarven fortress under Amaranthine itself? It was reclaimed, wasn't it?"

"The Arl has already sent a request for aid from their garrison." The Queen said; "That is all we know at present."

"Do we know anything of the forces present there?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." The King muttered, fist curled before his mouth; "Apparently they are accompanied...or led, I'm not too sure, by some Paragon of their kind. I'm not entirely sure of what a Paragon means in this case, but...it's someone of importance."

"I see...I will send a message for an airship to patrol the Arling around the suspected source, at least. Meanwhile, we should send a message to that garrison, reminding them of the aid they received in retaking it..." Belisarius said. Beyond it, however, there was precious little he could do with the resources he currently had on hand. There was not a grain of black powder in Ferelden, and Denerim had emptied its stocks of pitch upon the Darkspawn during the siege. _And hauling boulders would not be worth the hassle...though, maybe..._ "Actually, does Denerim retain any stores of large nails?"

"...nails?" Fergus' frown was one of confusion, though he could hardly be faulted for such; "I do not understand. How large, and why?"

"An idea, little more..." the General muttered. Gods, he wished he could walk on his own yet, and personally go through whatever stocks survived from the battle; "It merely occurred to me that if one could drop bombs on the Darkspawn, why not nails? Large ones, heavy enough that they would not be tumbled by winds."

"...you would rain _nails_ on the Darkspawn?" Anora seemed somewhere between aghast and amused at the thought; "...would that even work?"

"In theory."

* * *

It was five days before there was response from Kal'Hirol.

Five days spent patrolling the area around Vigil's Keep, where Aedan would assume the position left vacant by Daveth running out on them. Not once would they be further than a full day's travel from the keep, with no other means of keeping in contact than to return every other day. Still, even being _this_ constrained by time and numbers, the amount of villages and hamlets they came through was more than Talia had expected there to even be in the whole Arling.

Most were insignificant in size and population, some barely even more than a few farmhouses and a tavern. These were the ones that depressed her the most, though she'd expected as much. Small and undefended, they had been abandoned by their inhabitants in favor of the larger villages and towns, those with stockades and guards.

Those who had chosen to stay in their homes were often still there when their little group arrived, swinging from the trees. The sight was grim enough in itself, but the frequency with which the Darkspawn actually took the time to hang their victims was a whole other kind of worrying. Especially because, according to Carver, they'd done the same thing during the Blight.

Carver turned out to be...interesting, more so than she'd initially thought. Of course he'd survived the Darkspawn-infested Bannorns on his own, and passed through Sten taking him to the Joining, but when they actually caught up to the Darkspawn as the creatures were putting an abandoned hamlet to the torch, a new side came out of the brooding youth.

There was no reckless abandon in the way he fought, even though she'd thought for sure there would be. Every movement seemed like it was pure muscle memory, and she found herself watching from the rear most of the fights, flinging spellfire where the Darkspawn would bunch up. Carver simply... _moved_ , in a way that wasn't entirely natural. It was like how she imagined a Dwemer construct would move, sidestepping slashes and stabs, cutting tendons, throats, striking the Darkspawn with the pommel of his sword when all else failed.

It struck her somewhere in the middle of it all, that Carver wasn't fighting. He wasn't actually _combating_ a foe in front of him. He was cutting up meat, like a butcher.

 _That_ was what made it so unusual to watch. And he was _counting_ the Darkspawn he killed, openly. She wasn't sure what compelled him to do it, but found the method...odd. Maybe he was working towards some sort of set number? _How many people lived in Lothering?_

Suddenly, Carver's motivations and methods started making a lot more sense, but seemed no less unsettling for it. What would he do once he got to that number? Once he had killed as many Darkspawn as there had been people in Lothering, what then?

Would he be able to move on from his grief, or simply sit down and die? _Why can't we ever have any normal recruits?_

It was the fifth evening, back at Vigil's Keep, where she decided against asking. There were things people had to share of their own volition, she of all people understood as much. And, honestly, if she'd started pressing him on it, not only would it have been a bit of a cunt move, all things considered, but it would also have made her a massive fucking hypocrite. Because if anyone was a terrible sharer of actually important stuff, it was probably _herself_.

Carver was competent, there was no questioning that. He cut Darkspawn apart with the efficiency she'd have expected of seasoned Wardens, not newcomers to the Order. Then again, she wasn't dumb enough to ignore his own words on how he'd survived the Blight.

" _I had my sword."_ He'd said it like he'd commented on the weather, annoyed as he'd seemed with their very presence. Back then, she had thought...she wasn't really sure what she'd thought, but he had more than surpassed her expectations. Was this what Sten had seen in the unconscious human he'd picked up? Did the Qunari see what others couldn't?

Sten never really ceased to surprise, apparently. Maybe he'd seen some sort of likeness in Carver, and had chosen him for that? She knew, with some resignation, that short of asking the Qunari she'd never know. And the odds of him telling her without having to _drag_ it from him... _There's better odds Ancano would start praising Talos._

The hour had passed sunset when they'd been gathered in the meeting room. It was really just the fancy sitting room from earlier, but they'd made it actually cozy this time around. Ale, pork and a flickering flame in the fireplace, with Wicked Grace spread across the table in the middle.

She regretted the last one fairly quickly, when it became evident with how great a vengeance Sten and Brelyna had taken it upon themselves to rob their so-called 'friends' of every Sovereign and Septim they owed. Sten, she could understand. His gameface might as well have been a brick from the wall. But far as she recalled, Cíada had _lynched_ the Dunmer last time they'd played.

Now it was the little Circle mage's turn to glare at her cards, and at the other elf in the room.

"Fuck me, fuck this, _fuck_ my cards..." Honestly, if she wasn't in the process of getting wiped out herself, Talia would have laughed. As it was, she just appreciated not being alone in defeat. Constantly running about the Arling had left her limbs sore, and the chance to unwind before they went after the Mother - help or no help - was one she was determined to appreciate to its fullest.

Cíada threw down her cards face-up on the table.

"...I've got nothing."

Brelyna, as it turned out, _did_ have something. There was something pretty damn chilling to the smile she levelled at the smaller elf when her own cards came down.

"Oh I so fucking _hate_ you." Cíada grumbled, digging through her pockets. Which was, coincidentally, also the first time Talia realized Circle robes had pockets. The ones she'd been made to wear during her nonconsensual slumber party at the Circle did _not_ come equipped with pockets; "...also I'm out of coin."

"Shame." Sten noted, just the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he laid down a set _better_ than Brelyna's; "Then I shall take from the other elf."

"Hah!" Cíada laughed.

" _Aww_." Brelyna pouted; " _Steen_ , I thought we _had_ something."

"Oh no, no buttering up the Qunari!"

" _Talia_!" the Dunmer turned to her, and already the puppy eyes engaged. _Goddammit those are scary_!

"No." She stared at the ceiling, best she could do to avoid getting caught in those ruby orbs; "Bad Brelyna. Bad. Stop trying to use your adorableness against me."

Escape presented itself in the form of Nathaniel opening the door, drawing even the Dunmer's eyes away and to him. He bore the strangest expression.

"There is...a _visitor_ at the gates." She didn't quite like the way his eyes found and focused on her in particular; "And...apparently he's asking for you, Warden Aulus."

"...right." Because, really, when was she going to get another excuse to flee Brelyna's manipulative ways? She _knew_ that Brelyna knew that she knew, and so forth as it was. Still, she was trying hard to come up with who could be asking for her specifically. A lot of people, probably, had heard of the "Drake of Denerim", as Bann Teagan had so kindly chosen to make her famous as, but how many would know she was here? "Just play on, I'll be right back..."

Nathaniel led her outside, where warm evening air rushed against her. It was a damn sight more pleasant than the night they'd arrived. Fereldan spring weather might be shit, but at least it was getting increasingly less shit the closer it got to actual summer.

"This isn't gonna be one of those talking Darkspawn again, is it?" she asked, following in the Arl's heels; "...Because I don't really have the best track record with those."

"I am not entirely certain _what_ it...he is, but...not a Darkspawn, no."

"...you know it's a real dick thing to be all vague like that, even if you _are_ an Arl." Talia muttered, stepping past the Arl; "Alright, so where's the visitor?"

She wasn't _entirely_ prepared for the ground to shake in response to her question. Talia braced, waiting for...she wasn't exactly sure what she was waiting for, but something damn _heavy_ was approaching. It didn't help that she couldn't see a thing beyond what torches illuminated, so the world beyond the open portcullis was a vast unknown to her.

Wait, why hadn't the visitor just come in instead of her being called out here? Nathaniel had said he wasn't a Darkspawn, so...The ground ceased its trembling, and Talia's mind ceased its pondering. Mostly because it was having a hard time processing what the eyes were telling it. And, really she couldn't quite blame it when the ears joined in too, insisting on the presence of the hulking golem before her.

" **We meet again, Warden Aulus.** " The construct greeted her, its voice bass and baritone as if echoing off the walls of a cave; " **I have come to be of what aid I can, to scour the Darkspawn remnants."**

She would, for years to come, argue that her inability to form proper words was entirely justified. Of all the people she could have foreseen appearing at Vigil's Keep, Paragon Caridin was _not_ on the list. So, really, she could request some forgiveness when all she could muster in response was;

"... _okay_."

* * *

 **Ah, Carver, you precious, traumatised little gemstone. You need a hug, probably from the massive, sentient Golem.**

 **Also, yeah, the Legion took a serious spanking. Belisarius won't have a fun time reporting _those_ numbers to the Emperor.**


	43. It's 'Bringing your Golem to work' day

**It's 'Bringing your Golem to work' day**

* * *

The early morning sun rose above Vigil's Keep, greeting a spectacle quite unlike what most of its denizens would have foreseen the day before. The Grey Wardens had gathered just beyond the main gates, along with the College and Circle mages, and the Templars acting as tag-alongs for the latter.

"Cíada, get down from there."

And, of course, the latest addition to their forces, such as they were.

"But it's _so_ high up and I can see everywhere!" the small mage argued defiantly.

"Cíada, no." Ser Ava reprimanded her.

"Cíada _yes_." The elf retorted, grinning from ear to ear as she clung to her hold. Said hold was the top of Paragon Caridin's head-bowl - Talia had _no_ idea what the odd bowl-like space holding his head was called - where she held on like a child would a tree branch. The Paragon himself seemed to take the whole thing in something of a stride, maybe amused by the sudden liveliness about him; "This is perfect, I can throw spells at the Darkspawn from up here and they can't reach me! Can we get a seat up here?"

"It _is_ a tactically advantageous position." Sten said, only adding to the elf's grin, and kind of also to Talia's own. The Qunari did not look all that dissimilar from Caradin, himself clad in so much plate that he could have been mistaken for a golem if not for the open helmet. His greatsword, his _Asala_ , hung from his back where straps held it in place; "Ancient Qunari would ride beasts into battle like this, using their size to place towers atop their backs."

"I don't think Paragon Caridin would appreciate being compared to a beast." Aedan muttered, though the smile on his own face was not entirely hidden. Caridin's arrival - meaning the arrival of a multi-ton metal golem - had brought an unexpected levity to their situation, or at the very least it had brightened the general mood. Apparently, the garrison at Kal'Hirol had been unable to spare men for their mission, but had instead sent the message on to Orzammar itself. The Paragon had seemingly managed to break from his valley of tears, finding renewed purpose in the restoration of the Dwarven Empire. At least temporarily, but even then it was help none would turn down.

And apparently, he still felt like he owed her for what happened in the Deep Roads. Talia had - wisely in her own opinion - opted to refrain from mentioning that she'd never expected him to actually take her words to heart and that until Denerim, she'd thought he'd taken the final leap after all.

It would probably be impolite.

" **Fascinating creatures, the elves.** _ **"**_ the Paragon hummed, the sound exotic and odd through his metallic frame; " **I remembered them so differently from this one, creatures of stoicism and calm.** "

"I don't think those will _ever_ fit her." Talia smirked, watching as the Templar Boris was trying to get a grip on one of Cíada's legs. Times were odd, she realized, when she could find company with Templars and watch as elves played on golems.

"You've probably just met the Dalish." Cíada seemed unperturbed by Boris' attempts at pulling her down; "Bunch of stuck-up artifacts that lot. Except Merrill, she's fun."

" **Wardens, are we to grow in numbers, or do we go forth as we are?"** the hulking golem's voiced echoed within his own armor.

"We're all we'll be." Aedan sighed, tapping the pommel of his sword, as if to reassure himself that it was still there. The platemail he now wore might not be the equivalent of the Warden armor, but it was a damn sight better than fighting Darkspawn in his travel clothes.

Talia, wishing she'd not left her Glaive in Highever. The blade now strapped to Pebble's saddle was not a poor one, by any stretch, but at the same time she was no swordsman. There was a sharp contrast between the skills needed to swing a polearm, and the skills needed for a sword, even if this one seemed a bastardized merge of staff and blade. It was nearly half and half for the length, and she wondered idly if it had been left in Hakkon's nest, as Alma claimed, or if the old crone had found it in some blacksmith's chest of curiosities.

"You know, this brings back memories." Brelyna hummed, arms moving about as she tried out the flexibility of the hauberks the Arl had given both her and J'zargo. In hindsight it was something they should have gotten around to way sooner, but time had a way of kicking those things to the side.

"Pretty sure J'zargo has not travelled with golems before." The cat muttered.

"It's like our merry little band of misfits during the Blight, yeah?" Cíada spoke up, snickering from her positon on Caridin's shoulder as Boris seemed to admit defeat. Ser Ava looked at the both of them like a disappointed mother, but said nothing; "'course, faces are a little different, but we'll kill enough Darkspawn to make up for it, yeah?"

It was left unsaid that a face that had been changed out was Alistair's. Even then, Talia could not entirely disagree, that there was something familiar about this, humming to herself as she mounted Pebbles. The mare seemed enthralled by the lumbering piece of metal, more curious than the kind of terror any _normal_ horse would have displayed at the sight of such beings.

They were, once again, a core of Wardens with companions who went along for the ride, even as there was this time no Blight nor Archdemon. But it was still work. A work no one had ever managed to quit, with a salary that was never paid and horrible overtime hours. But, at least the uniforms were snazzy.

Just a shame hers was still in Highever too.

* * *

At Soldier's Peak, the feeling of nostalgia was somewhat absent.

Its garrison consisted of Immunes and Fereldans both, a merge that had come about from necessity less so than any intent on promoting cooperation between them. Regardless of how it had come about, it had resulted in a garrison wherein one half held deep curiosities towards the other, and stories and tales were swapped in the barracks and over mead and ale in the dark evenings, when the dredge of duty gave way for the comfort of the fireplace.

News had come in from the capital two days ago, that supplies were on the way, though not the kind they would normally receive. There had been communications of the spectral sort, leaving many Fereldan eyes wide as their King appeared in the middle of the courtyard, translucent and transparent like a ghost, yet issuing orders with a calm and normalcy as were he present in the flesh. Darkspawn had appeared once more, and with the Legion and the rest of the reformed army engaged in the west, the Grey Wardens were calling on and all help they could get.

Now, as the wagons rolled through the outer curtain walls, those not on duty had gathered to with their own eyes confirm what the King had said. The fortress master-of-arms was the first to take a crowbar to one of the crates once it became apparent that lifting them up the stairs was not an option.

Within the first crate, and each and every other crate in the wagons, stacks upon stacks of foot-long iron nails. The master-of-arms took one up, weighing the hefty spike in his hands. Somehow, it was now that he was starting to understand the damage these things might do if dropped like rain from those flying vessels the Empire used to make the skies theirs.

Now, he almost envied the Grey Wardens, for they would be the ones to see these things spearing and spitting the Darkspawn vermin.

* * *

The wounded's tent reeked of blood, piss and dread.

Honestly, it was no place for anyone to willingly enter, lest they were on the verge of death. Even with the return of the Imperial medics from the Dwarven expedition, the presence of Death still lingered over every bed and gurney, over every pile of straw or blanket stretched over the wooden boards.

Men who had been set on fire or speared, gutted or choked. Men who had been struck with Orlesian artillery and somehow survived to end up in the tents, arms and legs no longer on their bodies. The Imperials were decades ahead of them in medicine and treatment, and not just in the arcane magicks they employed. Even then, she could not count the bodies she had seen carried out of the tents.

Death, more often so than the medics, won the fight.

"G-general."

She was approached, not by a medic - it took neither Maker nor gods to tell they were far too busy to give a damn about her - but by one of the stretcher bearers. The man was smeared with blood, his eyes sunken and lifeless, and his fingers twitched as soon as he'd finished his salute. She'd noticed the same traits amongst a great many of those dealing with the wounded, or with those who'd survived the artillery.

The Pass was still now covered in bodies, most arranged as if still in their battle formations. When Orlais had washed the front lines in fire, the bodies had become coal. There was no blood there, only scorched earth and black bodies, forms of agony in their last writhings. The ones here, the one still screaming as the skin sagged and blistered, they were the ones who'd stood several paces away from where the liquid flames had splashed.

Humans, it seemed, could yet still inflict greater horrors upon each other than any Darkspawn horde. Now, she was here in the midst of the aftermath, wanting nothing more than to storm back out the tent again and hide away. The horrors of wars were rarely a match for the horrors of what came after every battle. After it was done, she had tried making it to her desk in her tent, but had collapsed on the ground. It had been nearly a full day and night before someone had thought to disturb her.

Cauthrien gasped, the air too thick with dread and screams and blood for her to breathe well.

"I...I am to..." Her mouth tasted like iron now, thick and cloying and suffocating. She needed air, by the heavens above, she needed air. Away from this place. Away from the screams and the blood. Away from faces drooping like puppets with cut strings. Away from men with legs and arms charred black and leaking puss. Away from healers with sunken eyes; "...Show me where they put Legate Khaok."

Wordlessly, the bearer nodded, clasping his hands behind his back as he started walking. Cauthrien followed, trying to keep her eyes from the innumerable wounded on both sides of the corridor. She locked her gaze instead on the bearer's hands, twitching and clasping until the skin turned white.

The Imperials had done something with magic to the tent, for on the outside there had been nary a sound escaping this place, and now within, it as if she had entered the realm of the damned. She'd thought herself prepared to enter, that maybe the tent would only echo with the moans and groans of beaten and battered soldiers. But, there was no quieting men whose flesh had been cooked away. Some had even been strapped to their cots with leather belts, trashing about and screaming.

Were they her countrymen, or were they Legionaries who'd paid the price for foreign soil? The incessant wailing made it hard to think. There were few sounds as unsettling as the weeping of grown men, broken in spirit and bodies both. Her eyes rebelled against her, landing on those trashing forms. They were covered in burns, with skin and hair gone, their own eyes wild and vacant. _The mind has died, yet the body does not understand._

"Here, General." It was only when she came near to walking into the bearer that she realized they had come to the dreaded end. All around them now, were those whose lives neared their ends. Healers and medics passed among them, applying what aid they could to either slow the passing, or make it less painful for the victims; "He is here."

The first thought on her mind as she saw him, was that Legate Khaok somehow looked very small now. And very, very still.

It was so wrong, to see the colossus in such a state. To see the man who'd served as her right hand throughout the battle, now lying here amongst the dying and the dead, his own form beaten and bloodied and still.

The Orc was a mountain of muscles and fury, yet here, he seemed as if he was no greater or stronger than any of the men around them. Most of his head was wrapped with cloth, stained red from his wounds. Even with the literal magic the Legion's healers could perform, there were very few of them, and very many wounded. He'd been stripped down to the same shirt as all the other Legionaries, betraying where blades had made their way through. Bandages covered more of his form than his own clothes managed.

Whether it was a testament to the care the Legion gave all its soldiers, or if it came with his rank, the healers had managed to save his leg. Cauthrien had seen it once they'd stripped the armor, a mangled and bloody mess where shards of bone protruded from frayed muscles. She'd thought it lost, and yet it was still attached to his body now. She could scarcely imagine the agony he must have gone through, to fight on with a wound like that. Though what was the point, in the end? This was the part of the tent they placed people in if they couldn't be saved.

Why even bother, if they knew the Legate to be either dead or dying?

"His breathing has steadied." It was a new voice now, causing her to turn, even as the words caused her heart to jump. One of the Legion's healers stood there, his eyes the same sunken, distant gaze as the bearer's; "We're moving him to the recovering ward later today."

"You mean he's-" she swallowed, sinking down the dread and blood; "He's not..."

"Dead?"

"I thought him so."

"Many did." The healer muttered, sticking a hand in the folds of his uniform. What he withdrew froze Cauthrien's breath in her throat; "We found this under his chest plate."

Dangling from a string as if tied by a child's hands, the Andrastian amulet reflected what light came in through the tent's overhead fabric. Cauthrien stared at the golden sunburst, trying to understand. _Why_ had Khaok worn such a thing, and just as much, where had he gotten it? A hand went to her own neck, from habit more than anything, where once there had been a chain with her own pendant to Andraste. She'd thrown it away in her fury at the Chantry, and not seen it again even after the battle.

Not that she'd searched, but...

"It is one of your pendants, yes?"

The healer held it towards her as if she was meant to take it. With a start, she realized that she was, and the man only resumed his previous slouch once the piece of ornate gold was in her hands. The tip of one of the sun's rays had broken off just short, as if...as if someone had stepped on it or...thrown it to the ground.

"... _Why_?" the question was directed at the Orc, and herself, but the healer was the one to answer.

"It is a curiosity, maybe?" he shrugged; "You can ask him when he wakes, but until then there's little here but silence...Legate Khaok is a good officer, General. We thank Akatosh he yet lives."

"Yes..." her eyes were on the pendant between her fingers, turning it over and over.

There were too many similarities between it and the one she'd discarded. It was too smooth, too touched for it to be new. Even had the Orc acquired it the day the Legion arrived in Ferelden, it would not be so worn. The questions echoed in her mind, even as she made her way out of the madness, out of the screams and back out into the open air.

Like a snap of fingers, the wails and the moans ceased as soon as she was beyond the entrance. The silence was almost deafening, and caused every hair to stand on her skin. Why had Khaok taken the pendant? What madness had made him take it, and wear it, when he believed in his own gods over Andraste?

The ruined gatehouse was still in sight, at least what remained of it. Like a ghost, it peered over the camp. The earth around it was cratered and soaked in blood. If the old wives tales were true, poppies and dandelions would grow fat on the slaughter and bloom in great numbers. Cauthrien could have laughed at the saying, but there was little left in her soul now but weariness and quiet relief.

 _Maybe_...maybe she could take just...just one more look at...-

"General." Her thoughts, and the treasonous desire for certainty behind them, were brought to an end by one of the Legion's Tribunes approaching her. It was the same man she'd seen acting with such valor during the battle, though she had still not learned his name. It was proper that she did so now.

"Tribune...?"

"Hardrada, General." The man saluted again, perhaps missing Cauthrien's frown at the name. Was that a first or surname? She wasn't even sure how to spell it, or if she could pronounce it at all. Nords, she'd come to understand, used sounds their counterparts did not; "There is commotion at the prison camp. You are asked for."

That was...unexpected. Not the commotion part, no, she'd expected trouble with such a quantity of prisoners gathered in one place. Frankly she was banking on their fear of the Aviatorii being the chief cause of the camp still standing.

That, or maybe they realized that the Legion was also treating _their_ wounded, a concept Cauthrien found hard to agree with from a practical standpoint. Moral, sure, she could see why all brethren of the Chantry should aid one another, or show mercy. But the Legion's treatment of its prisoners went beyond what she would consider pragmatic, and was downright too idealistic for her tastes.

"...by?"

"The, uh, prisoners, General." Tribune Hardrada replied; "I could not get from them why. Only that they wished to speak to you."

Damn it all.

"...I'll..." a last glance towards the ruined gatehouse stole her mind. If her pendant was not in her hands, it would still be out there. And if it was still out there, she could deal with Khaok upon his recovery with a mind more at ease. But damn it all, work came first. It always did. By Andraste, she was so damn _tired_ ; "...I'm coming."

* * *

It was hard to find the right words, when it came to describing the Dragonbone Wastes. A barren valley of lifeless soil and rock, decorated with bones both massive and not, and in numbers beyond counting. The sun had set and clouds moved in, even though Talia was damn sure it wasn't even past the afternoon yet. _Hakkon?_

" _I did not think you would reach such a place."_ The old dragon muttered, his dissatisfied voice thrumming through her skull; _"It is not a place for any but our kind. There are only few left that have not yet been pillaged by the spell-weavers of the north."_

"Scenic." Carver muttered, shifting on his feet.

" **It is a place steeped in old magic.** " Caridin noted, though she wasn't really sure how he could tell. Maybe the weather? " **The Dragons of old would come here for their final rest.** "

"How come it's not on the maps?" Aedan asked, maybe of himself; "Dragonbones are valuable, and bones of this size..."

"Ask Fergus later." Talia said, mostly because she could tell a certain other dragon who was very much _not_ yet bones and dust, disapproved of her husband's comments. Also, because she could smell something new in the air, something they hadn't encountered the last four days' worth of travelling; "My Warden-sense is tingling."

"Darkspawn." Sten's voice was calm as rock as he pointed ahead, his massive blade already coming out from its sheath. Ahead, in the valley, the ground cracked and exploded into man-sized molehills, before the dirt fell away to reveal the Hurlocks and Genlocks springing from the soil like goddamn tulips. Really, _really_ ugly tulips. And if Darkspawn were tulips, then she Ogres were probably in the contest for Thedas' ugliest sunflowers; "Two Ogres."

"There's an Emissary too." Carver pointed to the back, where a Genlock was waving a staff around like he was swatting flies.

There was a plan for all this, of course. Spending four days on the road would have been a waste of time if they'd not spent it planning for most probable encounters they'd have here. Quite frankly it'd have been grounds for sacking, except Wardens weren't really so blessed. There was no getting out of this line of employment. Might as well do it well until she _made_ a way out.

"Talia, take out their Emissary. Cíada, disrupt their center."

Theirs was the only part of the plan requiring adaptation, really, but even then it was fairly straightforward. If there hadn't been any Emissaries, it'd have been both of them _disrupting_ the Darkspawn's center. The rest of their group was all about finding a choke point, and then letting the heavy hitters get busy. That meant Caridin, and then Brelyna's Atronachs. If there'd been more than one Emissary, it'd mean their two tag-along Templars shifting from the melee to their more specific job descriptions.

Cíada was the first to open up, clawing at the air in the vague direction of the valley's sides. Seconds later, the walls collapsed as every root and piece of fiber holding them in place decayed on the spot, unleashing untold tones of dirt and rock on the Darkspawn closest to them. Another tear at the air, and the ground in the center of the valley turned to pools of acid, with predictably nasty results for anything it touched.

Two fingers, hard pressed together and jabbed at the Emissary. It was as close to an effectively flipped bird Talia felt like she could get, while also actually getting something done. Lightning sprung from her fingertips, a bolt of raw power that seared the air itself. Her opponent threw up wards, or barriers or...whatever the hell, she'd never gotten around to asking _what_ those bubbles were. The lightning splashed against the arcane barrier, doing little but causing the soapy surface to ripple like she'd merely poked it.

"Hey, Templars. How do you take down one of those barriers?" she called, because of course both had picked the other end of the line to stand in, meaning she actually had to multitask between hurling lightning at the bastard, and asking for advice.

"You hit 'em till he stops fucking around!" it was Boris who replied, his mood strangely unchanged by the circumstances. Somehow he was as surly as before, as if this was just a walk in the mud, and not a walk downhill in the heels of a golem as they approach the charging Darkspawn; "And try not to hit us!"

Seeing as there was no argument from Ser Ava...well, she _was_ pretty good at hitting things till they stopped fucking around. Brelyna was too, actually, and was currently demonstrating her skills in the art by turning Darkspawn into creative arts projects with ice and shock.

"Talia, observe J'zargo." The cat stepped past her, confidence in his grin. A confidence she'd normally find pretty fucking annoying, but right now she hoped he'd not just gone insane.

"Think you can break him?" She did step aside for the Khajiit, if nothing else than to be out of the splash zone.

"Genlocks, they do not weigh much, yes?" the cat didn't wait for an answer before casting spells of his own, paws and claws enveloped in thick, green mists. Ahead, on the other side of the valley, the bubbled Genlock seemed plenty surprised when it and its bubble _popped_ from the ground, held suspended in the air by the Khajiit's telekinesis.

Talia suppressed a grin of approval as J'zargo then proceeded to _bounce_ the shielded creature up and down like a ball of Valenwood tree-gum. Difference being, this ball as decidedly _not_ made for the repeated reintroductions with the ground, each strike leaving the barrier itself intact, but its contents in a more and more liquid state.

"Well at least the cat's having fun!" Cíada grumbled, wiping sweat from her brow. The elf was throwing acid rain and swarms of locusts anywhere it seemed to have an effect. Which, admittedly, _was_ pretty much anywhere. The problem was that there were a _lot_ more Darkspawn than not-Darkspawn, and the Circle's mages didn't come with unlimited mana.

Would have been fun, though, if they did.

She'd _not_ been allowed to remain on Caridin's shoulders, much to the elf's irritation. All things considered though, maybe it was all well and good she hadn't. Because the golem Paragon was getting into the thick of the melee now, revealing the runic gifts Queen Sorella had bestowed upon him.

" **Come to me, Darkspawn. _Orzammar_ sends her regards!**"

The hulking golem was contending with both the Ogres at once, at feat Talia didn't even want to dare in fully changed form. The Ogre directly before him saw its horns seized by unyielding gauntlets of dwarven steel, throwing the monster to the ground. The other threw itself into Caridin, staggering the golem enough that it preventing the stomping of the downed Ogre's skull.

It was a strange sight, watching that kind of creatures throwing around. Both were clearly wont to smaller foes, and the fight reminded her more of drunken brawls in Winterhold's tavern than warriors slugging it out. Caridin was still the bigger fighter, and a _lot_ heavier too. The fist he drove into the Ogre's side to get it off, seemed slow from Talia's perspective, but it sent the hulking Darkspawn tumbling.

" **Bask in our Queen's _warm_ embrace!**"

It almost sounded like glee, when Caridin held his palm against the staggering Ogre, and a torrent of fire washed from glowing runes, bathing the Ogre in flames. Even as one Ogre howled and roared, clawing at the flames eating its flesh, the Paragon turned to the one he'd first knocked down, almost on its feet once more. As Caridin strode towards it, he crushed and smeared Darkspawn underneath his massive frame. Between their Paragon and the rest of the group, the Darkspawn were thinning pretty fast.

" **Face me in open combat, fiend, and learn the power that is Orzammar!"**

She'd heard stories, mostly from Daveth, about how Qunari could rip the arms of grown men, and beat them with the wet end. She'd never seen _that_ , of course, but she imagined it looked a lot like how Caridin was currently doing much the same to the last Ogre.

" **Why are you striking yourself? Why** _ **are**_ **you striking yourself?"** Arkay's ass, was the Paragon actually having _fun_? The same question was repeated again and again, each time accompanied with a renewed pummeling of the Ogre with its own limb. Finally, the creature simply collapsed, beaten bloody and broken. Caridin finished the fight, if it'd even been that, by stomping its skull into the ground; **"Wardens! Does this slaughter of the Darkspawn exhilarate you as it does me?!"**

Oh, he was _definitely_ having fun.

* * *

Kirkwall.

It was not a place he'd ever been before, and not exactly because he'd never had the chance. Although the Alienage had been dreary and at times downright fuckin' awful, at least it didn't have those massive, moaning statues at the front door like the world's most bizarre "Welcome" mat.

Daveth scratched at his cheek, where a thick, curly beard had at this point all but overwhelmed any attempts at remaining within the limits of how civilized folk would look. Then again, so-called civilized folks had also emptied out the Highever Alienage to the last man, woman and child and loaded them onto ships. That was all he knew, though by Andraste's tits he'd refused to let somethin' as insignificant as being completely in the goddamn dark be anything but a minor hurdle in the way.

He'd been through every dock and harbor and port this side of the Waking Sea, scoured every bar, tavern and inn, barely sleeping or eating in his hunt. Anywhere folks might have heard rumors of hundreds of elves moving through. For weeks on end, he'd gone without anything even resembling a shred of luck. Then, in Sudwall, he'd overheard merchants talking of Fereldan elves.

It had taken some...persuasion, to make the man reveal what he knew once Daveth's accent gave him away - apparent Ferelden was _real_ unpopular these days - but in the end he'd gotten two words out of the man he could actually use. Kirkwall, and Darktown.

Kirkwall, he knew what was. Few with ears didn't know the massive Tevinter-era slaver city. The City of Chains, some called it, and honestly he could definitely see why. Those who arrived by sea would be sailin' in between those massive statues. _Nesiara came through those._

The thought was enough to stir him again, blood rushing through his veins at the thought of his wife being sailed past those monuments to the savagery of magisters, probably even in shackles for all he bloody knew. The city walls were coming up before him, rising like mountains. Like all cities of the Free Marches, Kirkwall was its own sovereign state, and defended itself just like it.

And like most, if not all the cities of the Free Marches, it was apparently gripped with religious fervor.

 _The Heathens have taken Ferelden!_ The calls echoed up and down the streets, ordinary people grinning with bloodlust at the thought of cleansing and _saving_ their southern neighbor, and piss all if it had to be done with butchery and fire. It had been the same in every other place he'd been, and as rumors went, Orlais and Nevarra were championing an Exalted March against his homeland. Had he been among the probably thousands of refugees fleeing Ferelden during the Blight, why fuck it, he'd probably have been one of those people, crying bloody murder 'bout those goddamn heathens and their heathen gods.

By the time he'd gotten to Lowtown - because those in charge had about as much imagination as a Genlock - it was apparently common knowledge that Imperials didn't fear demons nor possession, because they were damned demons themselves, the whole lot.

Also they drank babies' blood and sacrificed virgins. At least if the street preachers were to be believed, crazed men in tattered clothes, swinging incense and flails through the air like the birds were about to strike them down. It was a depressing sight, to watch as the Chantry fell into the politicking of the powerful, and seemed to wholly cast aside the compassion he'd always known it to embody.

He'd not brought up his support for the Chantry around Talia, at the start. She'd had pretty damn good reasons to dislike the whole thing, and he'd have been an ass for trying. Was enough with Alistair being a former Templar, and even that was enough to earn their old leader some undeserved shit. But, if this was what the Chantry had become, he was starting to understand what it had looked like from her point of view, back then.

There was probably something to be said about the fallibility of the human being, when even the Chantry could be swept up in the bloodthirsty craze - he refused to think they could have been the ones to start it - but right now, he'd more important shit to do. Finding Nesiara meant finding information brokers, or slavers.

Either way, the bars, pubs and taverns of Kirkwall would be his best bet.

* * *

 **Caridin having fun is such a precious thing.**


	44. Paragon's Fall

**Paragon's Fall**

* * *

Two things had become rather apparent, and Aedan wasn't sure which surprised him more.

The Dragonbone Wastes, what had at first appeared little more than a shallow valley full of dragon bones - which in itself was a find most Chantry scholars would have knelt before the Black Divine to get their hands on - was decidedly _not_ just a valley full of dragon bones. Hidden away beneath mud and rock, old Tevinter architecture started making itself known and visible the further they ventured into the twisting pathways and steep cliffsides of the Wastes.

 _Venturing_ , maybe, was not the right word. More like they followed Caridin as the massive Paragon-construct simply trampled and torched anything stupid enough to rear its head before a fire spewing golem. It was honestly less a fight and more the Darkspawn committing suicide by golem. That was the other thing that had become apparent, though in hindsight maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise at all;

"Having Caridin along _really_ makes this a whole lot easier." Cíada pointed out, putting emphasis on his own realization by wandering forward with little care for danger, safe for making sure she did not step in smeared Darkspawn. Not that he blamed her, though he likely should. Even with Caridin, they were still wading deep into the nest of the so-called Mother, an intelligent Darkspawn.

Those last two were words he'd never thought nor wanted to hear in the same sentence. As they came up upon a plain, lifeless plateau, thoughts of intelligent Darkspawn fled his mind almost entirely. Before them, stretching like a wall from one end of the Wastes to the other, Tevinter Architecture greeted them in all its faded splendour. Talia whistled in appreciation, and honestly he couldn't disagree.

It was a testament to either magic or engineering - or both - that such structures still stood. Like Ostagar it had weathered time itself, though less worse for wear than the ancient fortress to the south. In the centre of it all, as if built _after_ the great beasts had made the place their graveyard, a door provided entrance through chiselled brick and marble. Tall enough that even the Paragon might fit through, and made from wood that - somehow - had not yet rotted away. _That'd settle the whole thing on magic, then._

" **Companions, we have come to a door."** The Paragon thrummed, his voice caught between announcement and simple observation, as if only realizing halfway through his words that the discovery was an obvious one. It was strange, but Aedan actually quite liked Caridin. More so than he'd thought he would a golem; **"It is without doubt our quarry makes its nest within."**

"Place gives me the fucking creeps…" Templar Boris muttered, hand on the haft of his mace.

"Steady, Ser Boris." His commander admonished him, though Aedan could hear the tightness of her own voice, behind the helm. Even with the gifts of the Grey Wardens, he didn't like the looks of this place. And though highly trained, neither Templar was anything but human; "We've come this far."

"Because of the Paragon killin' everything for us." The grouchy Templar pointed out; "I mean no offence, Ser Caridin."

" **None is taken, Templar."** The golem hummed, as if bemused; **"If I must wander the world, better that I do so with purpose. Destroying the Darkspawn is as good as any, at that."**

"Better, I'd say." Aedan heard Talia muttering, likely only meant for her own ears.

" **I hope you will agree to my leading this charge, Wardens."** Caridin said, with such genuine politeness that Aedan wasn't really sure if it was rhetorical. Did the Paragon think _they_ were any keener on stepping foot into this place?

"By all means, Caridin." Talia said, a revering tone to her voice. Aedan couldn't tell whether it was genuine or not; "You are greatest of us, it is only your due."

" **I appreciate such words, Warden."** The golem nodded, leading to the noise of metal scraping metal; **"Then, let us find our way in the dark, and put an end to this malice."**

If anyone had expected the Paragon to be gentle, there was disappointment in store. The door was shattered and torn from its hinges, untold centuries of weathering undone in seconds by Dwarven craftsmanship. Aedan could almost chuckle at the thought of the same, reverent Chantry scholars who'd prostrate themselves before the Black Divine, now tearing at their hair at the destruction of such ancient woodwork.

Within, a hall of broken masonry awaited them. It was strange, how the insides of this place, protected from the elements as they were, seemed worse off than the exterior. The Paragon was first in, and first through the hall, giving little care to the scenic views of the hall, ancient Tevinter carvings illuminated by torchlight. _Intelligent Darkspawn…Maker, let these be the last we'll see._

As Caridin lumbered on, Aedan froze in his steps as a figure emerged from the shadows to their left. Taint wafted from its form, his blade already raised when the Darkspawn stepped into the light, freezing him in his steps. This was no Darkspawn, or at least, not yet.

"Fuck me, don't these things _ever_ stop coming out of their damn holes?" Boris cursed.

A ghoul, an elven woman clad in splintmail. He could sense more than saw Talia tensing up, painfully aware of her fear and hatred of these shuffling things. As it was, though, this one did not shuffle, nor did it seem aggressive in the least. It was enough to make him pause, even as Caridin up ahead had come to a stop, maybe sensing they'd stopped following him.

The abomination halted, just beyond the reach of his sword if he'd swung, watching their group with a puzzled, almost disappointed expression. Aedan felt his insides churn at the gaze he felt from those milky eyes.

" **A ghoul, Wardens."** The Paragon called, maybe thinking they were uncertain on _that_ point.

"I am not so." The ghoul spoke, voice clear and normal enough that he'd never have guessed if not for his own eyes and the stench of the Taint from within her; "I am Seranni, acolyte of the Architect."

"Is…is this for real?" Cíada asked, waving her hand before the ghoul's face, as if to check if the damn thing was blind. A frown was her answer, and she withdrew her hand before it could be gnawed on; "Fuck me, even the _ghouls_ are talking now? What's next, _Broodmothers_ demanding we call them beautiful? Six tits the new norm now?"

" **This is what you spoke of, an intelligent Darkspawn?"** Caridin had lumbered over, his tone anything but cordial.

"Odd choice of words from a talking statue." The ghoul retorted, raising its… _her?_ …chin at the golem. If there was one thing Aedan had never thought to experience, it was a ghoul returning sass; "I can talk, as you see, golem."

" **Speech does not make you an intelligent creature."**

"Says the talking statue."

"… _ouch_." J'zargo huffed.

"How come you're speaking?" Aedan cut in before Caridin would just smear the ghoul over the floor. At least he wanted some actual information first.

"She's Dalish." Cíada interrupted; "Look at her face-markings."

"Same clan as Velanna?" Brelyna asked, of no one and everyone at once, he felt. The ghoul snapped her attention to the Dunmer, and Aedan found himself stepping just a foot closer, so that he could be between them if the creature attacked.

"You carry no taint, yet you look like you would." the ghoul - Seranni - addressed her; "You have met Velanna?"

"I'll take that as a yes." Aedan noted; "Meaning you're like this because of the Architect, right?"

"I…yes." Seranni nodded; "He is kind to me, to all of us who aid him. At first, I was frightened, of what I had become. But his words soothed me, as they did with the others."

"We saw what the Architect's Darkspawn did to your clan." Ser Ava spoke up, her voice hard and tight; "What they did to Velanna. Maker's Mercy that we rescued her from the fate your Architect left her to suffer."

"I know, it was an unkind thing to do. But my sister was always stubborn." Aedan felt his insides shrink and curl, at the thought of knowingly aiding those who did such things to your family. It would be akin to working with Rendon Howe, the treasonous swine; "The Architect is not wasteful, he knew Darkspawn attacks would draw in Grey Wardens, as they have now done."

"I'm really getting the creeps here…" Cíada muttered. It wasn't hard to imagine why Darkspawn would want to lure in Grey Wardens, especially if they were intelligent enough that revenge was an option.

" **There is no intelligence here but that of this Architect. Destroying this enslaved vessel would be a final kindness."** Caridin boomed; **"Allow me, or do so yourselves, Wardens. But do not leave behind this tainted vessel."**

"The Architect will explain everything, he awaits you deeper inside these ruins." Seranni continued, as if deaf to the golem's threats; "We only ask that you hear us out."

"We have." Sten stepped up, blade level with the ghoul's throat; "Darkspawn will do not reproduce as others do. You can only grow in numbers with the taking of our women. And Darkspawn are not immortal, so you _will_ take women from the surface, or from the Dwarves."

"From…from Lothering." Carver whispered, terror-stricken in expression as if the notion only now occurred to him; " _Maker_...my…my whole family."

Carver had never found his family among the ruins of Lothering, Aedan remembered. Suddenly, Talia's words of optimism, that this had to mean they escaped, soured in his mouth. He remembered far too well the Broodmothers of the Deep Roads. A fate worse than death.

"…how can you aid the Architect, knowing what his plans require?" Talia demanded, yet her voice was low enough that it was barely above a whisper, strained and tight. As if she was afraid of raising her voice; "When you know what happens to everyone the Taint touches?"

"Because it is the lesser evil." The smile on Seranni's face was not a cheerful one; "I know, that they have done cruel things. They are like children, you see, come into the world with no understanding of right and wrong."

"And, what, you're teaching them to _behave_?" Carver spat, malice and anger coating his words; "To play nice?"

"I am helping them understand the world, yes." If Seranni - and Aedan was finding it harder now to not refer to the ghoul as such - took offense at the other Warden's tone, she did not show it; "Isn't ending the Blights, once and for all, a worthy goal?"

"Doubtful." Sten muttered; "Men, elves, dwarves and Qunari, we evolve. Darkspawn do not. Each Blight has been less of a threat than the one before. You are parasites and animals, little more."

"That is no longer true." The ghoul insisted; "Yes, the Darkspawn are of beastial nature, but I have seen them overcome it. They _can_ overcome it."

"There is no overcoming nature." Sten retorted, sounding halfway between bored and mildly irritated; "I tire of this chattering, we should slay the ghoul and be on our way."

"Can't we cure her?" it surprised him, hearing J'zargo make the suggestion. The cat-man turned to Brelyna; "This one heard Brelyna did work on the sick in Amaranthine."

"I don't think it works at this stage, J'zargo…" the Dunmeri girl shook her head; "She is already a ghoul."

"It is time I returned to my work." Seranni stole his attention when she spoke, mostly because there was no asking for leave in her voice. There was only certainty, like a man stating much the same of returning to his fields; "The Architect waits for you ahead."

" **Do not allow her…-"** Caridin was already moving, but Seranni was gone, melted into the shadows of the wall, gone from sight. Aedan stared at the wall, trying to discern what exactly had just happened. Leliana had been able to melt into the shadows, but she'd still _been_ there, just hard to spot.

"I hate it when they do that…" Cíada cursed.

" **She escaped."**

"For now." Aedan muttered, sheathing his blade again; "We'll find her, sooner or later. Let's go."

The door at the end of the hallways suffered no worse nor better a fate than the first one. The only exception was that a Hurlock was on the other side, and got caught in the blast as Caridin pummelled in the wooden frame.

Beyond the door, a stairway hugged the insides of what looked like a tower, leading deeper into the bowels of the world. Darkspawn occupied it, rushing up the stony steps at the golem's entrance. Caridin _was_ , however, a golem. His weight alone crumbled the stonework as he took his first steps down, leading to a sight not unlike wading down a muddy hill. The Darkspawn _on_ the staircase either threw themselves off it or were mashed by the oncoming mass of animated metal. There was not a shred of elegance to it, but Maker's Breath, it was _effective_.

The smear left behind was something even the Grey Wardens did their best not to step in.

The members of the party who weren't three meters tall arrived at the bottom floor at roughly the same time the Ogre did. The beast lumbered into the room from a large, open doorway, bellowing its challenge to the golem currently using one Hurlock to pummel another, like he was trashing _wheat_.

"Do we…shouldn't we be helping him?" Brelyna voiced her concern as the giants engaged one another.

"…you really want to get involved?" Talia asked, her attention instead seemingly on whatever Darkspawn of the smaller variant had survived Caridin's dramatic entrance.

Aedan shook his head, not willing to get even _close_ to the brawling monsters. The Ogre was clad in plate, which was enough reason for him to stay _away_ under normal circumstances, but Caridin still had the mass and his mounting experience with foes as big as himself. The Darkspawn swung and jabbed, trying to pierce dwarven steel - or whatever it actually was - with the long, metallic spikes fastened to its wrists. Another reason _not_ to get close.

Their effectiveness was somewhat lessened by the simple fact that Caridin's armor barely even _scratched_ from the impacts. He did however return the favour, breaking off one of the spikes before jamming it through the Ogre's skull, helmet and all.

"…if we were getting paid for this, I'd almost feel bad." Cíada said, leaning against the wall; "He's literally doing all the work for us."

The Ogre collapsed with a shuddering _thud_ onto the tiles and the old bricks, the forward fall only driving the crude spike further through its skull until Aedan saw it breaking out the back of its helmet. Caridin paused for a moment, watching his foe as if unsure if it was dead.

"I don't think it's getting back up." Carver was the first to break the silence, relative as it was. He was himself busy putting his sword through every Darkspawn on the floor, those that had jumped from the stairs before Caridin rendered them smears. Aedan had noticed him to be a thorough sort like that; "We've cleared this part of…wherever this is."

"More than just a few ruins, I'd say." Ser Ava noted; "Chantry records on Amaranthine Arling sometimes mentioned a place called 'Drake's Fall', though I never did see it on a map."

"Never saw you spending much time in the library." The small Circle mage said.

"We knew Anders was in Amaranthine, somewhere. I was just looking up possible hideouts." The Templar muttered; "If this is Drake's Fall, it should be built over a massive chasm, deeper than even the Deep Roads."

" **It is not as deep nor wide as the chasm of Bownammar."** Caridin was already marching ahead, through the same doorway the Ogre had come through; **"But a chasm all the same."**

Aedan made a mental note to tell Fergus later, and get the name and place on the maps. If nothing else, the sheer mass of dragon bones could be used to sway the other countries not to declare war, or at least to only do so as lip service. Maybe.

Was it weird if he was still an optimist, even these days?

"There's fighting ahead." Talia said, staring at the ceiling. Aedan could hear nothing, but then, he knew her ears were keener than his. It did make him wonder though, who else was fighting down here but them?

" **It is true, the Darkspawn fight amongst themselves."** Caridin declared, halting his steps. When Aedan came through the doorway, nausea struck him like a hammer. A low wall, barely going above his waist, was all that separated them on both sides from plunging off the bridge, and into the blackness of the chasm below.

Maker's Breath, _why_ did everyone insist on building across chasms? Ostagar, Bownammar and now this? At least they could make the walls a little higher, Andraste's Sake even the _dwarves_ had walls taller than these on their bridges. _I'm starting to think the Tevinter architects had a sick sense of humour…_

Ahead of them, past where blobs of fleshy masses spilled over the bridge, he could see Darkspawn. True to Talia's words, they _were_ actually fighting, though against what he couldn't quite tell. Strange creatures, like larvae with the limbs of spiders or roaches, and many even stood taller than the Hurlocks.

"What are those creatures?" Carver asked.

" _Ugly_." Ser Boris muttered.

"Looks like they're coming out of… _cocoons_?" Talia said, frowning as her green eyes seemed to take in the area for a second time; "Those tubular things there, in the… _meat_."

"Oh, that is _nasty_ …" J'zargo hissed; "This one would rather we set it all aflame and let the fires do away with the Darkspawn."

"Not…a bad idea." Aedan nodded. Talia was, even with Caridin present, their resident pyromaniac. Rolling her shoulders until they cracked and popped, she drew tails of black energies through the air until they coalesced into small, spinning spheres of dark and unnatural purple. With humble _pops_ of displaced air, the demon-like visages of the fiery atronachs appeared, spinning on their feet as if mid-dance inches above the ground.

"Now _that_ 's a sight…" Ser Ava said, her helm making it hard to tell whether her voice was one of admiration or worry. Whichever it was, her words ceased as the two atronachs moved forward, settling alight anything not made from granite and marble in their paths. The fleshy masses sizzled and boiled at their presence, and the same Darkspawn larvae came screaming out of their cocoons, writhing like maggots from open wounds until they hit the ground and crumbled there, perishing in the unquenchable flames.

"Oh yeah, those fire things…" Cíada whistled with appreciation; "Kinda forgot that's a thing you could do."

Caridin had paused in his stride as well, seemingly taking in the sight of the dancing apparitions, making their way across the bridge. The Darkspawn too, had stopped, at least the ones closest to the incoming flames. The larvae could only crawl and leap, being slower overall than the humanoid creatures they'd fought, but neither could outrun the pace of the atronachs. It was only when an emissary at the end of the bridge threw a spell of some sort, too far for Aedan to tell, that the atronachs perished, combusting with flame and enough force that it blew away the low walls on either side there. It also blew away the emissary, the creature not having expected the fiery atronachs to take their vengeance.

He didn't look forward to crossing any more now than he'd done with the bridge crawling with Darkspawn.

" **Impressive feat, Warden.** " Caridin hummed before resuming his stride, trusting against better judgement in the ancient architecture's strength to bear him. Aedan felt like he could see dust and small rocks dropping from under the bridge. Maker, rather the worst storms of the Waking Sea, than these madmen's heights; **"In my day, the armies the Thaig's would clear such spaces with firethrowers. A nostalgic sight, even if by humans.** "

"As long as you're taking point, you can use those runes of yours all you want." She grinned, nodding to the glowing inscriptions on the Paragon's massive hands.

It was a grin that seemed to die somewhat, as they made it across the chasm.

* * *

In the skies above the Dragonbone Waste, a shape appeared from the dark, sinister-looking clouds. At first, there was no sound but that of the rushing winds, and the crying of the owls into the night skies. Slowly, however, as the vessel approached, the sounds of creaking wood and straining fabric carried on the wind. It was one of the Imperial airships, a vessel to traverse the skies as easily as any ship would on water.

Where otherwise there would be hanging bombs, ready to be dropped upon enemy formations below, now were fastened boxy containers of metal and wood, ech large enough that an ox could ride within and have enough space for lying down or standing. Men and women of the Immunes, soldiers of the Legion tasked with roles outside of combat, hung on the railings of the airship, eyes squinting to make out the details of the ground below.

"Darkspawn in sight!" the call rang out, and the weapons were readied. Hundreds of iron spikes, nails reforged so that their mass was focused in the tips, prepared to be hurled more so than merely dropped upon the heads of their enemies. These men had already bombed the Darkspawn from the skies once before, over Denerim, and now looked forward to once more sow death and chaos amongst the foe.

"They're not moving!" another call went.

"They look dead!" another call, this one with clear disappointment; "Someone get magelights down there. Aim at the middle of the valley!"

The spells went out, and down, soaring unfeathered by gravity until they struck the dark soil of the dragon graveyard. Around the arcane lights, scattered like the toys of a petulent child, the remains of the massacred Darkspawn rested. It was more a gallery of grotesque arts than anything resembling a battlefield proper, and strings of slurs and complains soon enough filled the air, even as the captain of the vessel ordered a turn-about.

The crew of the airship, eager to test their new armaments, found to their disappointment that they apparently had been late for the fight.

* * *

At the end of the second bridge was another tower, its interior much the same as the first two. There was, however, a small change in the population of this one. Like the others, it led only further downwards, yet it was devoid of Darkspawn such as they were. Instead, at the centre of the tower's base, an arcane circle of some sort crackled with energies.

"Okay, that is _not_ something I'm going near." Cíada frowned; "It's got _trap_ written all over it."

As if called forth by the mage's words, a figure rose from the floor, _through_ the floor, it had not been lying there or sitting there, but seemed to emerge straight out of the centre piece of round masonry from the arcane circle. It rose and rose, taller than even Sten and Caridin, until finally its ascension came to a halt before them. What Aedan saw, he found hard to describe.

It was like a man, if a man could grow to such heights, and yet definitely _not_ a man at all. A Circle-like robe covered his body, while arms as grey as Brelyna's stretched for unnatural lengths, necrotic in appearance. Large, feathery pauldrons reached out as if trying to add mass to the deathly thin frame, and a face half-hidden behind a weird, gold- and red mask where a horn rose as if it had grown from the merge of flesh and not. More disturbing was how the skin of the figure's head stretched up, becoming instead hard-looking and black, as if the face had attempted to grow itself into headwear.

"What about _that_?" Boris was apparently the only of them capable of speaking, his voice dry and hoarse; "You going near _that_?"

"Hell no!"

"It is a Darkspawn." Sten noted, sword already poised to strike; "Is this the Architect?"

"That is…me, yes." Aedan froze when the creature spoke, only half its face moving as if the other had simply given up. The voice was like that of a dying man, gasping for air; "I…am the Architect, though this should not have…been the first time we meet. My plans it…seems, are not fruitful as often…as I would like…"

" **It is the master of these Darkspawn."** Caridin strode forward, only to freeze in place as the Architect held out a hand, a lazy gesture at best. A slow turning of his wrist lowered the massive golem to the ground, where he remained unmoving, as if in a stasis.

"I am…not the master of my brethren." He rasped; "I seek only to set them free, a venture that requires me to…use you, Grey Wardens."

" **Wardens, I have fallen and I cannot rise."**

"Explain." Aedan's voice was fiercer than he felt, in the face of this creature. To simply wave a hand and knock down the Paragon, the Architect possessed might greater than he immediately wanted to tangle with.

"When you become Grey Wardens, you take the blood of my kind into you, to become what you are." There was a small voice at the back of his mind, shouting of the broken secrets of the Order. Not that they'd ever done much to keep them, as Alistair had often complained; "I wish… only to set my brethren free. To do that…I need Grey Warden Blood."

"Okay…can we kill him now?" Cíada shifted on her feet, eying the downed golem; "No, seriously, _can_ we even kill him? He just…did that _thing_ , to _Caridin_."

"You killed the Withered, as I… sent him to request and offer cooperation, yet there is no need for… violence between us."

"Why do you need our blood?" Talia pressed.

"To become what you are, you take our blood. What… I would take, is your resistance." The Architect explained, his rasping and monotonous voice an irritant on Aedan's very soul. It was as if it stole his own breath away with each uttered word; "Sadly, I have…only managed to acquire one of your Order, so far…"

Those words, spoken as mild complain, set a cold fire in his veins. One of them? He'd already taken Grey Wardens? But, who? And when? Every Grey Warden in Ferelden was accounted for, far as he knew, and either right here or in Vigil's Keep.

"Who did you take, creature?" Ser Ava growled.

"A Warden at the end of his time, close enough to his Calling that he would not have lasted much longer." The towering Darkspawn paused, as if weighing its words; "It would have been a waste, to let him wander into the Deep Roads, when his blood could…be of some use."

Aedan forced the anger down, knowing there was little they could do without a plan. The Architect was superior to them, his handling of Caridin betrayed as much. At least, until he came up with something other than a mindless charge.

"Yeah, but _why_." It was Cíada who pressed now, keeping the Templars between herself and the monstrous creature.

"…each time there is a Blight, it spells the death of hundreds of thousands of my kin, and… destruction of your surface lands." Aedan's eyes went about the room as discretely as he could go about it, deathly afraid of what would happen if the behemoth before them sensed his intent; "I would free the Darkspawn from their compulsion, to seek out the Old Gods. The resistance of Warden blood sets them free of that…in my folly, I first thought to prevent the Blight in its entirety."

"…that's…that doesn't sound like folly." Brelyna piped up, shrinking visibly as the Architect turned its masked gaze upon her; "…I think?"

"Evidently it failed." Aedan forced his voice not to stammer or stutter, adrenaline rushing through every vein in his body.

"Yes…" the creature admitted; "I had thought to find and kill the Old God, Urthemiel, before the Darkspawn reached her."

" _You're_ Darkspawn." Carver argued, and it was a point that made Aedan's mind freeze in its planning. The realization struck him like a hammerblow, as did both the fury and the dread that came with it.

Talia, he saw, was rubbing at her scalp like she'd gone mad, faster and faster. He moved to her, even as she started shaking, trembling in his grip. It was getting worse and worse, to the point that he could barely hold her in one place. Carver, even as he spoke, seemed to realize the same things as he had. The boy's face twisted into an expression Aedan did not know was possible, grief and hatred mixed in one; " _You_ …"

"My presence, even as I sought to kill the sleeping beast…" the Architect muttered, though less and less now Aedan could keep his eyes on the Darkspawn, his wife now instead trembling in his arms, as if she was about to collapse as she had in Highever; "…corrupted her very being."

"Fuck me…" Cíada whispered, eyes wide with horror; " _You_ _started the Blight!_ "

* * *

 **Ah, the Architect, what a sad figure, really.**

 **In his attempts to prevent a Blight, he kicked it off instead. This was one of the harder choices I had in my experiences with Dragon Age, I'll admit to that much, without saying what I ended up choosing to do. We're nearly at the end of Awakening - we're pretty much _at_ the end, actually - which is a point I'd not thought I'd actually reach. **

**This book, of course, doesn't end here, by a half.**


	45. Mother's Day

**I will not sugar-coat it, this chapter was hard to get through. It's like getting to the last pages of a book, and realizing that your previous eagerness to get through it now leaves you with no more at the end. Well, maybe a game is more of an appropriate comparison, all things considered. We're at the end of Awakening, and about to return to the wider conflicts of Thedas and Tamriel both.**

 **I am aware, grudgignly, that Talia is not everyone's favorite character. It's a matter of personal taste, and honestly not something I can fault anyone but myself. Still, even if people do not care too much about _her_ , it is a pleasure to know they care about other characters, even ones I never thought would be popular (the joy it brought me when I realized people worried about Khaok and Cauthrien is hard to describe), and once more we're zooming out from the small picture, the the somewhat bigger one.**

* * *

 **Mother's Day**

* * *

Cíada's outburst left the chamber in heavy silence.

Aedan, his attention torn between the Architect's reaction to the elf's words, whatever it might be, and Talia struggling to keep herself from...from what, exactly? His wife jolted and struggled in his arms, rivulets of sweat rolling down her face. She hissed, recoiling from herself and the world, the veins of her temples standing out as if ready to burst.

Of course, an actual outburst followed soon enough.

"I'll kill him! I'LL KILL HIM!" Carver yelled, sword unsheathed as he leapt for the Architect. Sten, his reaction faster by a fraction, grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him back. The Darkspawn before them had not even flinched; "LET ME GO! STEN! LET GO OF ME!"

Sten, however, neither spoke nor obliged him. Aedan found himself grateful to the Qunari, even though his actions spoke against their very purpose and task here. To kill Darkspawn.

"MY FAMILY! THEY'RE DEAD! _DEAD_!" Carver cursed, yelled and spat, punching at the Qunari's arm. Sten maintained his grasp on him, having realized much the same as the rest of them. The Architect had planted Caridin in the floor with a mere _gesture_. Aedan wasn't even sure if they _could_ kill him.

"My plans...have not gone as I intended." The Architect muttered, lowering his hands as if to make himself less threatening; "I intended to prevent the Blight, I truly did. It is... a _plague_ upon all of us, not just the dwarves and surface lands."

"Road to Hell..." Boris muttered, his stance still as if ready to spring upon the monstrous creature. Could the Templars bring the Architect down? What if their powers had no effect on him, and it would simply result in the deaths of his comrades? Frustration and fear gnawed at his guts, even as the monster before them remained unmoving, waiting.

Aedan's attention was torn from the others when Talia suddenly calmed down, though now seemed as if she were asleep. He opened one of her eyelids, relieved beyond measure that the eye within was normal, _human_. He'd half expected, and wholly feared, to find a reptilian pupil within the green. Light slaps to her cheeks brought those eyes back, rolling around in their sockets before finding their focus, the glazed gaze receding.

"You alright?"

"I'm...just had a bit of..." she closed her eyes again and groaned, bringing up a hand to rub at them; "Damn it, I'm gonna get _so much_ shit for this..."

"What happened?" Brelyna was at their side in an instant, hands aglow but not yet touching down. She seemed as confused and concerned as he was, which did not take him by surprise; "You're unharmed, aren't you?"

"...more or less." Aedan didn't like the sound of that, at all. _More or less_ could be anything from a mild cold to just barely staunching a fatal wound. He supported her as she sat against the wall, her attention not on them but on the creature before them; "...I don't suppose you've got a plan?"

He shook his head, honestly, he had _nothing_. They _knew_ nothing about this opponent, save that he was to Darkspawn as giants to men. Blight magic held horrors few could imagine, and he was not keen on provoking a display.

"...I've got one." He frowned as she spoke, wondering if she'd received some sort of revelation from her blackout. In Sten's iron grasp, Carver was starting to quiet down. Not that the boy seemed to be _calming down_ , but that the resurfacing grief had left him drained. That at least gave them some time; "But, you're not gonna like it."

It wasn't like _he_ had anything better than trying to stall. The Architect - _whatever_ he or it actually was - was no mere Darkspawn, _that_ was clear enough for everyone, he felt sure. The talking Darkspawn, the Withered, had said the Architect was _old_ , though exactly how old was hard to tell. He looked and acted disturbingly human.

"How exactly do you even _go_ from trying to prevent a Blight, to _starting_ one?" Cíada had not quieted down, it seemed. Aedan grimaced at her tone. He had _no_ idea what would set off the Architect, and they already knew they likely stood little chance against him. The _one_ chance they had was if the Templars could actually rob him off his magic, but even _that_ wasn't a given. Alistair had once told him how Templar training had prepared him - or would have, had he ever finished it - for mages capable of weathering a smite; "How _fucking incompetent_ do you have to be for that to happen?"

A frown marred the Architect's expression, at least what of it could be seen.

"Grey Wardens attain immunity through your Joining." His answer was not addressed to the elf; "I only sought to replicate it, with the Archdemon."

"It didn't work." Talia had slowly risen to her feet, without grace but at least she seemed steady enough that he didn't have to support her. Of the many things he could read from her expression, confidence was not among them. What was she planning, if anything at all? It would not be beyond the pale for her to have no plan at all; "Okay so...I have... a suggestion, if anyone's interested?"

Several eyes, those that hadn't already looked at her when she began talking, now turned their attention on the redheaded mage. She shifted on her feet, clearly not entirely as comfortable with the attention as she maybe should have been. Her boots scraped the dusty tiles, as if she was hoping to dig forth the confidence from the rock itself.

" **I am interested."** Caridin was the first to speak, still on his back. Aedan wasn't entirely clear on whether he as being _held_ there, or if his golem form simply wasn't capable of rising from such a fall; **"Will you speak of your suggestion, Warden Aulus?"**

"Right, okay, I'm just..." she rubbed at her face, dragging back sweaty hair until her look reminded him of Flemeth. A finger, not entirely free of shaking, pointed to the Architect; " _You_ want to prevent the Blights from happening, as in at all. No more Blights, _ever_ , yes?"

"Yes, although I admit to my failings and their consequences, my intentions were not malevolent. Stopping the Blight, by any means necessary." The Architect paused, as if he wasn't sure on the words he'd spoken; "...Is that not the Warden saying?"

"I wouldn't know, but it _is_ in the job description." She shrugged before clasping her hands together, palm to palm; " _We_ came here to kill the Mother, but we've no clue on what or where or who she is...I'm guessing on the _she_ part, by the way."

"The Mother is..." hesitation, from the great Darkspawn. Aedan again wondered if they should clear away the non-Wardens of the group, simply to make sure no taint was spread to them. Far as he knew, it was only done through wounds, but still; "...she is my most flawed creation. Cruel as irony is, sanity and sentience drove her mad, once she saw the monstrous form she bore. Your kind calls it a Broodmother, though I would caution to believe her so mundane..."

"Heard that, Cat?" Cíada muttered with dripping sarcasm; "Broodmothers are _mundane_..."

"I came here to end the Mother, but...I cannot approach her in the flesh, her children, such twisted abominations, they keep her safe from me." For a moment, the monstrous humanoid watched the ground, as if the confession brought him shame; "...I am in need of your help, Wardens, if the Mother is to be stopped. She will attack the surface again and again, and grow in strength, if she is not stopped here and now."

" _Lovely_..." Talia muttered; "Sentient, power-hungry Broodmothers are my favorite thing, right after death..." Aedan watched her, biting his tongue as her intentions started becoming clear to him, disturbing as they were, if he was right; "You need our help to kill the Mother. What then? What will _you_ do if we don't kill you as well? Regardless of you intentions, you _are_ Darkspawn. You corrupt and despoil by merely being present."

"I am aware, that your code would bid you attempt to slay me, as well...But," Aedan's hand was already on the pommel of his sword again, ready if this was the point where the eldritch horror before them snapped; "But, would it be that we could resolve this without violence between us, I would go away, deep within the world, where not even the dwarves set their feet."

" **It is a Darkspawn, it** _ **must**_ **die."** Caridin insisted, and Aedan found himself leaning towards the Paragon's point of view, rather than his wife's. He would support her, still, but he was not in agreement with the notion of letting something as vile and horrifying as sentient Darkspawn remain afoot; **"Being intelligent only means it will lie and deceive."**

"...so, there's my suggestion." Talia sighed, her back straightened in the face of the creature before them; "For now, we help you kill the Mother. Then you go away, take your smart Darkspawn with you. We kill any you _don't_ take with you, and we will continue to do so whenever we _find_ Darkspawn. If we ever hear about Darkspawn raids on the surface, or attacking the Dwarves, doesn't even have to be in Ferelden, we'll take it as you breaking the deal. We'll find you..." she paused, and Aedan thought for a moment her hesitation was of doubt, until she gestured at Carver; "And Carver gets to cut your head off."

" **Darkspawn** _ **will**_ **attack us."** Caridin pointed out; **"It will break such an oath as soon as it'd breathe."**

"Why not just kill him now?" Carver was the next to speak, anger and grief mixing in his. Aedan was inclined to agree, but knew as well that they'd have no chance at planning amongst themselves if it came to it. The Architect no doubt could listen in even if they whispered far, far away. Again came the certainty that they would not be able to kill this creature without suffering casualties themselves, casualties they didn't _have_ to suffer; "It's not _right_ to leave Darkspawn alive. Aren't we Grey Wardens?"

"...there is a line, I believe, between being Grey Wardens, and being dead." Surprisingly, it was Ser Boris who spoke, the lack of complaining or swears surprising as well, though this was fast made up for; "Sure's Hell I didn't pack enough lyrium to take down Arcane Horrors...or _whatever_ this bastard is."

It was a sound point, and seemed to get through to the rest of them. Aedan hated the fact that he found himself forced to agree with it, with the fact that they were matched against such a being. If they had known beforehand, they could have prepared. Brought potions, extra lyrium flasks, Howe soldiers, maybe even _Legionaries_.

Legionaries, he somehow felt, might have made quick work of this place, and all its tainted inhabitants. They would have cleansed the place with fire, like they did with the Darkspawn at Denerim. Here, he dared not risk the lives of his companions in a fight that didn't _need_ to take place.

At Talia's mentioning of Carver separating the Architect's head from his body, a figure appeared as if emerging out of the Darkspawn's shadow. A dwarf, a woman clad from head to toe in bronze-colored plate, a sword ready in one hand, a shield in the other. The group fell into surprised silence, none having seen the dwarf before now. It was like the ghoul Seranni, he realized, some strange ability to disappear and appear from shadows, in ways that made Leliana's tricks seem childish by comparison. Her face was set in anger.

"No, Utha..." the Architect motioned for the ghoul to stand down; "That is not how this must go." His face turned to them; "I agree to this proposal, Warden, if it is shared by your group as a whole."

Aedan waited for the protests. His eyes wandered their group, trying to pick out faces with mouths about to open. Carver looked like he wanted to beat the Architect with a rock, not that he could be faulted for it. Sten seemed to share the opinion, and could probably beat _harder_ than Carver, but stuck to scowling.

" **I protest this agreement."** Caridin, of course, was the one he'd most expected would disagree; **"But I also am no fool, Wardens. If this is the decision of your Order, let the consequences be upon you too."**

"Thank you, Wardens." The Architect actually bowed his head. With a gesture of his hand no more energic than before, he raised Caridin back on his feet; "I am...not blind to how difficult this must be for you."

"You'd better not be." Talia's voice was devoid of emotions, save perhaps the promise of retribution if the Architect deceived them. Aedan knew she didn't dare unleash her powers fully, for fear of their unborn child, but by no means was she powerless. She could back up the threat, he knew that. Her voice was colder, harder, when she spoke again; "Where is the Mother?"

The Architect guided them to a wide, descending corridor large and wide enough that Ogres could have passed through, and left them there. This, contrasting the marble-clad and chiseled stone corridors of the Tevinter architecture, was dug through the rock by Darkspawn, its walls dressed in the same fleshy substance as the bridge had been. No one dared touch it, and their mere presence seemed to... _agitate_ the walls, as if the stuff wasn't just organic, but outright _alive_.

"What even _is_ this stuff?" Cíada asked, her fingers hovering inches from the reddish mush.

"I do not believe we want to know." Ser Ava muttered, weapon at the ready as she was one of those taking point down the descending corridor; "Careful you don't slip, it's on the floor too."

" **The tunnel widens out."** Caridin, taking point, noted as his massive feet carried him downwards with a certainty the others did not enjoy. The golem was in no risk of slipping when his weight alone anchored him in even the slimy substances covering the ground to increasing degrees. The mages were burning it ahead of them, but only the top layers seemed to boil away. The stench was enough to make him gag; **"...by the Ancestors..."**

Where the corridor ended, the ceiling seemed to disappear, as did the walls. The floor widened out with the walls and the loft, becoming a cave of such size that it was hard to imagine it not breaking through to the surface world. Rays of light even shone in from above. Had morning already come?

The flesh-covered path persisted, spreading like a rug across every surface ahead of them. The mages gave up at the sight, and even Caridin had ceased trying to burn away the substances. There was simply _too much_ of it. Like mosses, it covered the walls and the stalagmites and rocks, a bobbling, living mass. Thick, black veins like arteries spread throughout it, and all of them traced back, like the branches of water streams, to the back of the cave.

" _By Azura..."_ Brelyna's whisper was one of horrified disgust. The Architect had at least spoken the truth when it came to the Mother's nature, or at least her appearance.

Seated like a grotesque parody of some queen on her throne, the Mother was a deformed woman, her upper half a pale, human mockery of the word, with black, filthy-looking hair hanging in loose bundles over a face lined with red, as if tattooed or segmented. It was hard to tell where the line was drawn between the human form and that of the mound of flesh and tentacles that was the Broodmother's body. At the waist there was no doubt nothing human remained, as the breasts lined up underneath like the teats on a Mabari bitch.

"Fucking _Hell_..." Talia breathed, a hand clamped over her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. Aedan felt his insides turn, both at the sight and the smell. Next to him, his wife bent over and emptied her guts onto the flesh-covered ground.

"Ah, if it isn't the brave heroes." The Mother could speak too, of course. Aedan had hoped she wouldn't. her greeting was a mocking one, loud and crowing in a way that reminded him of Flemeth. The same madness laced the mother's voice; "Here to slay the mother. Here to kill her, hmm? Here to _end_ the threat she poses to the Father's plans."

"Peculiar way of pleading for mercy." Sten grumbled, his lilac eyes sweeping the grounds. Several places, it looked as if the fleshy substances were boiling, budding like mushrooms would start sprouting from the reddish muck. It took him another moment to realize that something _was_ budding, yet he couldn't tell what; "I trust we are not considering sparing _this_ thing as well?"

"Not a chance." Talia wiped the slime from her mouth; "Caridin?"

" **It will be my pleasure."** The Paragon boomed, striding forward, through the mush. The substances stuck to the golem as he passed through, and it took a moment before Aedan saw, and the others saw, that it was not merely something sticking to the Paragon's massive frame. The Mother's babbling, maddened words and curses with little coherence, punctuated by a loud, ear-shredding scream. As if it had been the signal, the buds they'd noticed before now shot from the ground.

"Oh... _shit_." J'zargo hissed.

Dozens of tentacles grabbed onto the Paragon, halting the massive golem in his tracks. The first, he tore from the ground like the arms of a squid, but quickly they became too many for him to shrug or tear off.

"Help Caridin!" Aedan yelled.

Even as he leapt forward, Sten and Carver were next to him, blood-dulled blades swung as soon as they reached the first tentacles. More rose, even as the first were cut apart with unsettling ease. He'd though it like cutting down trees, but it was more like cutting a boneless arm. It was pure muscle, brimming with taint and power enough to crush a man in plate. But so, so easily cut and sliced.

More and more appeared, growing out of the muck. Aedan cut and cut, lopping off the tentacles only a little slower than the next would appear. The muscular spikes grasped at them, grasping at their arms and legs. It was becoming harder and harder to move forward, the substances underneath sucking him down.

Fire engulfed him.

The flames licked around him, scorching the tentacles and strings of crawling meat, yet left him entirely unharmed. Talia stood not far away, already casting new spells along with the other mages, while the Templars hacked away anything threatening their spell casters. Cíada was the only one of them actively moving forward, paving a path with corrosive acids and entropic spellfire. The fleshy underground did not so much recoil as it simply disintegrated, growing first dark then black then withering entirely into dust.

But she could only go so far, before the strain became too much and Ser Boris had to wade in through the red paste, hauling out the drained mage before she was swamped in regrowth. Like crawling rats, the red meat stuck to his armor, crawling upwards even as he tore each step from the muck.

Strings shot directly from the muck to his front, dragging the weary Templar face first into the substances. Somehow, he managed to hold Cíada above it long enough to throw her back to the others. Then, with a gurgling bellow, his form was covered entirely. Cíada screamed at the sight.

" _Boris!_ " Ser Ava yelled, fear and dread fat in her voice.

Aedan was struck with horror at what he'd just seen. The very ground would swallow them if they didn't get to its source, the cackling Broodmother at the back of the cave. They couldn't even _get_ to her like this, and the Architect and his promised aid was nowhere to be found.

A wave of flames washed over the growth devouring the Templar, boiling away the reddish flesh with sizzling shrieks, as if the stuff itself was conscious. Steaming, Boris staggered to his feet but was stopped when new growth grasped him. Again, fire washed the Templar, Talia hurling brief bursts of incineration at the encroaching mass.

"Get up, Templar!" she yelled at him, her face gleaming with sweat and fury.

Aedan noticed she had stepped forward to better aim her spells, and a cape of fire scorched the ground she walked. He couldn't even imagine the strain that had to put on her, and she'd done it to save a _Templar_. J'zargo dragged the exhausted Boris the last meters back to relative safety, protected as he did so by the stalwart Ser Ava.

"Aedan!" Talia yelled; "This isn't working!"

"I've noticed!" he shot back, irritated and frustrated, and by the Maker he was _tired_. Up ahead, on the other side of the ever-sprouting forest of tentacles, Caridin was burning and scorching, tearing and ripping. Constantly new tentacles would rise to replaced what was torn or burned; "Anyone's got a plan?!"

"The tentacles grow from the muck!" it was Ser Ava who yelled now, though her message was hardly a revelation; "If you burn enough of it, it'll run out!"

"What else, the skies' blue?" Cíada groused, rubbing at where she'd planted her face against the cleared ground; "Shit grows back faster than we can destroy it, and I'm running pretty fucking low on reserves."

"Oh!" Brelyna exclaimed, digging her hands into the satchel on her hip. Glass bottles of blue liquids emerged; "Talia!"

Talia turned in time to catch the small, blue bottle tossed her way. It took a moment for Aedan to recognize that it wasn't a lyrium potion, though he felt like he could be forgiven, considering his attention was split between the mages and clearing out the wiggling, tentacle-weeds.

"You're a gods-send, girl!"

"You had those all this time?!" Ser Ava yelled before Cíada had the chance, though the elf looked like she agreed; "Where did you even _get_ lyrium?"

"It's not lyrium." Brelyna protested, edging back as the fleshy mush crept closer. Flames enveloped the girl for a moment, scorching away the red growth; "I don't even think it _works_ on Thedas mages."

"Bullshit, Lyrium works on Talia." Cíada argued, staggering over to the Dunmer; "I'm scraping the barrel as is, I'll take the risk."

Brelyna paused, hesitating with one hand around the neck of another flask. As if gauging the stillness of the mages, another tentacle burst from the muck, striking at the smaller elf.

Boris, by some Maker's miracle already on his feet again, shoved the small woman aside and took the blow in her stead. Hardened muscle that would have penetrated Cíada's body instead struck the Templar's armor like a warhammer, throwing him against the wall where he fell, limp as a doll.

"Boris!"

"Give me that!"

Cíada no longer asked, and grabbed the flask from Brelyna's hand. Aedan wasn't allowed to watch what came next, when fresh attacks surged from the floor he walked on, trying to haul him down as it had Ser Boris. The substances stuck to his shield, yanking at his arm until he simply released it, realizing it was little use against their current foe. Instead he grasped the sword's hilt with both hands, and started cutting through the naked muscles dragging him down.

"Oh boy..." his attention swung back to the mages, in time to see Cíada dropping the emptied flask. The Circle mage swayed on her feet, as if drunk. The air sparked around her, causing the Khajiit next to her to step away; "I don't...I feel... _weird_..."

"Oh dear."

"What's going on back there?!" Carver yelled, his voice as tired and frustrated as he looked. His swings and cuts were growing sluggish, and some even failed to cut through tentacles on the first try; "We're getting swamped! Someone get Caridin moving or we're going to die here!"

"I'll- I'm on it!" Cíada staggered forward, holding out a hand. Aedan moved out of the way, more than wary of how the Circle mage's magic would respond to the Tamrielan potion. The air crackled with green in the elf's outstretched palm, then fizzled out like a candle. For a moment, Aedan nearly managed to breathe with relief, that at least the potion didn't seem to have any unexpected effects.

It was a fool's hope, of course.

The air around Cíada combusted, throwing the small mage backwards from a blooming ball of fire. Ser Ava caught her, but the momentum was still enough to send both of them to the ground. Cíada was knocked out cold, though Aedan's eyes were instead on the dissipating cloud, and the flames still licking at the growth nearest to where the elf had just now been launched from. He wasn't allowed the time to connect the dots, however.

Caridin had town himself free, immolating the ground he stood on in the process, and had made his way through the mush to the 'Mother'. It was telling just _when_ the abominable creature felt threatened, when every tentacle not yet grasping at the Paragon withdrew back into the ground, only to burst out around the golem instead.

It left both Sten and Carver, for a moment, swinging at the empty air.

"Move up! Move up!" Aedan yelled, moving through the sludge as fast as he could make way. It felt like much of the paste-like substance was retreating now, coalescing to better defend the center. It was like running back out with the tide, like he and Fergus had done as children; "Support Caridin!"

" **Quake before the might of Orzammar, abomination!"** Caridin bellowed, flames pouring from his gauntlets to bathe everything around him in cleansing fire. Tentacles beyond counting sprouted from the ground, wrapping around everything and anything where they could gain purchase. Whether it was a testament to the Paragon's own will or dwarven craftsmanship, they could not bring down the lumbering war machine; **"I am Caridin, Paragon of Orzammar! I shall tear your heart out, oh enemy, and cast it to the ground wreathed in fire!"**

" _CHILDREN! CHILDREN, COME TO THE MOTHER!_ "

Everyone, even the unfaltering Caridin, paused at those shrill-shrieked words. Even as they echoed off the walls of the cave, other sounds seemed to replace them. Hundreds, _thousands_ of chittering feet, like cockroaches, coming from every hole and nook and shadow.

"Something's coming." Sten noted, turning his head to scan the walls.

Aedan felt his skin crawl as he saw the first of the "children", those abominable larvae-like creatures. Barely had he spotted one, before dozens poured from what seemed like everywhere and nowhere at once, coming out of the very rock itself.

"This is bad." Carver had already squared his stance again, no longer moving for Caridin. None of them were, in truth, except for the mages now moving away from the entrance to the cave. Talia and the rest of the conscious mages hurled spellfire as they retreated, though it seemed to do little in the face of the swarming grubs; "Hey, _Talia_! Where's that Architect you made _promise_ to help us?!"

"No idea, fuck him!" the Breton yelled back, her tone leaving little to the imagination of just where Carver could shove his hindsight. The Architect was probably waiting for them to die weakening the Mother, enough that he could finish it himself and throw aside the agreement. Ser Ava and J'zargo carried the limp forms of Cíada and Boris behind their line, while Brelyna's Atronachs stomped and squashed anything getting too close; "Form a circle! Mages behind! CARIDIN! KILL THAT BITCH ALREADY!"

" **I have!"** Caridin bellowed in retort, tossing the torn-off head of the 'Mother' towards their circle. The mush was already withering, though Aedan had not the time to consider it correlated before the first of the grubs were upon him; **"I even tore the heart out and set it alight, as sworn!"**

"They don't seem to care all that much, do they?" Carver's voice was strained, his exhaustion evident even as he cut down the swarming abominations. Aedan too put all other thoughts aside, and concentrated what energy he'd left on pest control; "Hey, Sten!"

" _What_." The Qunari growled, pulling his blade from the skull of a grub, before kicking another away that had sought to take a chance at him being "unarmed". Of course, being a Qunari, Sten was _never_ unarmed.

"We might die here!" Carver's words were strangely devoid of the fear men usually held when they said that kind to things. Then again, it could be the fear was there, but Aedan simply couldn't hear it over the chittering and screaming of the fat, crawling creatures; "Thank you, for giving me a chance to make a difference!"

"We're not dying here!" the yell was Talia's, though she wasn't in the front row, but rather behind them. She could barely hold herself upright, leaning heavily on Brelyna even as the Dunmer was healing wounds he'd not seen her sustain; "M-move aside!"

He could barely hear what she said, but Caridin's approach was not a subtle one.

" **Bring your wounded onto me, Wardens!"** there was little arguing with the Paragon, even as no one immediately had the hands free to actually comply. Aedan didn't like the idea, bringing both their downed comrades out of the protective ring and closer to the swarming foe. Finally, the Khajiit was the one to carry out the order, lifting both the unconscious Templar and the small Circle mage onto the golem's massive frame; **"They seem endless in numbers, don't they?"**

"That rhetorical?" Aedan muttered to himself, aware no one could hear him over the noise. The paragon was moving up now, forcing them to step aside by his sheer presence alone. A moving tower of steel and wrath was not something you tried stopping once in motion.

" **Bask in the warmth of Orzammar's Queen!"** Caridin bellowed. Scalding steam and liquid fire belched from his gauntlets, dousing everything before the golem in hot death. The roar of fire overpowered everything else, and for several, long moments, it was all he could comprehend. The world was split in everything behind and ahead of Caridin, with the latter turning from decomposing muck into a sea of fire, whereupon nothing could step or crawl without itself being consumed; **"The Aeducans send their regards, Darkspawn!"**

Fire, really, had a beauty all its own. Aedan had come to this conclusion several times during the Blight, but it was the first time since fighting at Denerim that he truly recognized it again. To a Grey Warden, and really anyone, the shrieks of dying Darkspawn was among the sweetest of sounds. Caridin swept his arcs lazily from side to side, bathing every inch of the screaming masses in runic fire and steam. For how long it went on, he couldn't tell, only that when the Paragon finally ended his assault, there was nothing more alive on the ground before them.

A total, deathly silence reigned, interrupted only by the occasional _pop_ whenever blisters would burst on the boiled skin of the Darkspawn larvae. Soon enough they stopped, leaving the cave in actual, honest silence.

J'zargo, coughing, was the first to break the silence this time.

"... _damn_."

"I'll say." Talia muttered, releasing an obvious sigh of relief. Caridin had once again made it clear just how the dwarves had managed to retake their old Thaig so quickly. The Paragon was a monster, one he felt grateful to have on their side; "I take back everything bad I've ever said about the dwarves."

" **There is much to be ashamed of, amongst the dwarves."** Caridin noted, striding forward; **"Though not of our craftsmanship."**

"Right..." she nodded, maybe taken aback by the response. Aedan himself felt shaken, his limps trembling in the aftermath of the fight. It struck him that even as Grey Wardens, none of them were immune to the fear Darkspawn would inspire, even now. It was thanks to Caridin, that they all yet lived, and it seemed a realization shared by the rest of their group.

It was a terrifying sensation that hit him, enveloping him like a cold, damp rag. If not for Caridin, even if they had managed to kill the Mother, likely none of the would have made it out of that resulting swarm. Talia might, if she were to change her shape, but then she would have been too massive to actually leave, and the swarms would eventually overwhelm her.

" **You appear troubled, Warden."** It was a moment before he realized Caridin had addressed him, even though the Paragon walked ahead. It was strange but, could Caridin sense these things, or was it that his vision did not rely on the eye-slits in his helm? **"Does victory not please you?"**

Aedan didn't answer, not immediately. He wondered, what to even say to such a question. Of course he was relieved they'd won, and without a single death amongst them to boot. But at the same time, the Architect had escaped them and now he was starting to worry Carver, Sten and Caridin himself had been right, that they could not trust in such a creature.

Now, there was no sign of him, nor of the aid he had promised them if they _worked together_ against the Mother. What had the damn creature even wanted with them, in the first place? He'd done nothing to aid against the Mother, and had to have known they were already coming here with her death in mind, so it couldn't be that he wanted to convince them to kill her. It all just seemed like _unnecessary_ effort from the Architect's side, unless he was simply making up excuses to watch their fight, and to see if they would win or lose.

And once more, that thought brought him back to the lumbering Paragon, ceaselessly striding through the withering substances, crushing the charred bodies underfoot as he went. It was useless to attempt not to walk on their broken, boiled bodies, and there was not an inch of the ground not covered by them. The rest of the group did much the same, a silent spectacle as the near-death situation just before had left little mood for banter.

"...I'm worried it wouldn't have been victory without you." He admitted at last, aware that attention from the others was on his words; "Less of a worry, actually...More of a realization."

" **There is no shame in accepting the aid of comrades, young one."** The slaughtering of Darkspawn in untold numbers seemed to have brightened the Paragon's mood; **"Even your Order has never been capable of combating the Blight entirely on its own."**

Caridin was right, of course, and Aedan couldn't offer much of an argument against the golem's words. Still, another doubt lingered in his mind, gnawing away. Caridin was a construct, even if his soul was that of a dwarf. It was still the dwarves that had built the golem, and done so well enough that he was worth more than any non-magical Grey Warden. Just like the Empire, with their flying mages and airships, he couldn't escape the feeling that Grey Wardens were losing their importance in the fight against the Darkspawn.

Was it relief he felt?

Was he relieved that the Empire's arrival, and the resurgence of the Dwarves might spell the end of an era stretching back almost as far as recorded history? That common soldiers would soon enough replace them, with weapons of war that would render the Darkspawn's crude instruments no more threatening than common beasts? What could Darkspawn blades do when battlemages free from the threat of possession, could blow them apart in fiery spectacles from afar, or simply swoop from the skies like birds of prey?

What role would Grey Wardens have, then, if such an age was about to be upon them? What would it mean for those already Grey Wardens, who now had to go through their shortened lives, knowing their sacrifices weren't really needed anymore?

What would it mean for him, or for Talia? He looked to her, his wife conversing quietly with Brelyna a few feet behind him. He couldn't make out the words, and wondered for a moment if it was the Dunmeri tongue that she sometimes used with her near-sister. While Brelyna seemed untainted by the blood soaked into her robes, Talia looked as if she had rolled about in it, scratches and bruises covering what skin she showed, while her hair was a mess of caked blood and filth.

He knew she hated being a Grey Warden, and with the bulging of her abdomen visible even through the chainmail and thick robes, he was starting to share her thoughts. She wasn't even fully a Grey Warden anymore, not after Hakkon had apparently purged her of the taint, and yet still she fought with them, because...because what? Did she feel she bound by the Joining, even now? It made him want to grab and shake her, to yell that she shouldn't be anywhere near combat now. That she should be safe, that _he_ would make sure she was safe. It should have been a bit of funny irony, considering the powers she wielded. But when he saw that bulging stomach, all he could see was how vulnerable she was, and it far overshadowed her strength. _One lucky slash, or stab..._

The thought that they were endangering their unborn child by embarking on this kind of mission, heedlessly throwing themselves at the Darkspawn like they were back during the Blight made a wave of nausea roll up his throat. The Blight was over, the Mother was dead, and the Architect hopefully fled somewhere far away. Others could deal with him. Others could pick up the charge _they_ had carried so far.

Highever called, and they had earned the peace.

Funny thing though, he could have sworn they'd already earned it after the Blight.

* * *

 **This more or less marks the end of the first half of the book (which is a surprise because it means I could actually stick to the plan). Hopefully, Talia can be allowed some rest at her second home in Highever, and everything can be peaceful and happpily ever after.**


	46. Eye of the Cyklone

**Ah, and so, part 2 commences. Essentially you could view this as transitioning from Awakening to DA2, if only to have a somewhat solid grasp on the timeline. We all know how great I am at sticking to the plot of the games by now, yes-yes? ;)**

* * *

 **In the Eye of the Cyklone**

 **or**

 **The Wlonia Incident**

* * *

Summer was on the doorstep, and the Imperial City basked in its warmth.

Prince Valerian paused at the entrance to the Emperor's personal study, aware that these days his grandfather seemed more troubled than usually. The guards on either side of the door watched him with the revered indifference he'd grown so wont to in all these years at the palace. Of course, he'd not actually _grown up_ here, but at the southern estates. All the same, there was a sense of nostalgia to this place, a feeling that he belonged within these corridors of chiselled marble and painted glass.

Beyond the nearest, red-stained window, he could see the Palace gardens down below. The grasses were white with daisies, and the lavender hedges resembled explosions of life and colour more so than mere plant life. He'd rolled Alai through those paths in the gardens, learning the names of flowers he hadn't even known they had. The warmth spreading through him at the thought, he couldn't quite tell if it was brought forth by the image of her smiling face, or the warm rays of the sun.

He really did hope she would pass the entrance tests for the Cynod, so she could study here in the city. Being in line for the throne meant he'd grown up somewhat deprived of company of those who weren't either tutors or nobles throwing their daughters at him - or their sons, though usually they'd been so terrified of offending him that there'd never been any enjoyment in any of it. Alai seemed different, less afraid of causing offense, less shy somehow.

He hoped she would be his friend, and tour the city with him. There was still _so much_ left to see, and seeing it with a friend definitely won out over watching from the insides of a carriage. Life ceased whenever and wherever those things moved, everyone lining up to bow. By the Divines he wanted to just _see_ life, without people freezing in their tracks to scrape in the dirt before him. His father, he knew, viewed things differently.

"I would like to see my grandfather."

One guard looked to the other.

"His Excellency is not available at present, your highness." The guard who had gazed at his comrade finally said, his tone one of weary diligence; "He attends a session with the Elder Council. The doors are shut, even for you."

Valerian was, for a moment, taken aback at this refusal. He was of course not so arrogant as to believe himself needed nor wanted at every meeting his grandfather held with the powers that be, but at the same time it did leave a sting. He was in Cyrodiil to _learn_ , after all. What better way could there be than to observe the running of the Empire directly?

"I will await him in his study, then."

Though the decision allowed him to exercise some authority in the face of being told off, Valerian came to regret it somewhat when the wait turned out somewhat longer than he had expected. Minutes stretched into half hours and then full hours, as the sun beyond the windows crept towards the horizon. He should have sent for a servant to bring him lunch, he realized, though doing so now felt like it would display indecision. _Sometimes I understand grandfather, when he says he envies the commoners. They can take food whenever they wish, no regard for appearances…_

The last rays of the sun kissed the White-Gold Tower when the door opened. Valerian, having slumped into one of the cushioned chairs of the study, jolted when the handle was turned, and managed, he thought, to appear somewhat respectable when the Emperor entered.

"Valerian, are you still here?" his grandfather seemed amused. Before the prince could reply, his stomach growled, a reminder that his own pride had restrained him from summoning food. The smile crept on his grandfather's face, and a quiet beckoning to one of the guards followed, before the door closed again; "I hear you took interest in the meeting today."

"I would, though…" it felt strange to complain about it, when it was the Emperor's decree; "I was not allowed entrance."

"Fault of mine, I confess." His grandfather sighed, lowering himself into the desk chair. Valerian waited, knowing more was to come. The Emperor never did short explanations if he could help it, that much he'd learned by now; "I had not even considered you would be in the palace, nor that you would be interested. The doors were shut, yes, but I should have clarified that you were permitted entry."

"I see." It was likely hard for most nobles, to imagine the Emperor admitting it when he made mistakes. Mostly, it was because he did not make a great number of them, but those he did were usually rectified, far as Valerian knew.

"In any case, I'm afraid it was rather dull, and would have bored you terribly." His grandfather mused, rummaging across his desk for a quill; "You would think it a short process, demanding the Redguards shore up their borders. It was not, and I had to endure three hours of the same two senators bickering, as if they were a married couple, and the representative from Hammerfell arguing nothing more _could_ be done about the cross-border raids."

"…I think it sounds more like an exercise in tolerance of loudmouthed children." The prince muttered, at the last moment trying to suck back in the words when he realized the Emperor's eyes were on him. A grin, almost sardonic, crept onto his old face; "Forgive me, that was tactless."

"The truth often is." His grandfather hummed; "They are, in many ways, little but bickering children, crawling around on the floor in search of things to stuff in their mouths. And like children, they only respect the authority they can see and feel."

"Such as?"

"If the Redguards cannot prevent their kinsmen from raiding across the border, then I would permit the Legion to pursue those raiders back across it." The amusement fell from his face; "Understand that I am not willing to enact hostilities upon the Redguards under current circumstances. We need them as much as they need us. The Dominion is not content with this peace, as you well know."

He did, and the knowledge terrified him. The Dominion _hated_ them. There was no question that sooner or later, they would attempt extinguishing the Empire's light, just as they had tried before. It had dominated much of his own upbringing, the anger and frustrations his father bore. It was only when he grew older that he understood their cause, that his father knew _he_ would be responsible for the Empire's defences, if the elves waited long enough for grandfather to pass on the mantle.

Father bore scars from the last war, scars no healer could make vanish.

"…could we win, if the war came tomorrow?" the question was not a pleasant one, though his father always claimed they could. There was still the nagging doubt, the suspicion that even the Crown Prince did not know as much as the Emperor.

For a long, heavy moment, grandfather did not respond. He put aside the quill and sighed, resting his wrinkled face behind folded hands.

"We could do better than the last war." He said, at last. It was not so much certainty as it was a sense of resignation Valerian got from his grandfather. Resignation to weathering the arcane storm that was the Dominion; "We have more men, better equipment and new weapons. Skyrim is at rest again, High Rock more prosperous than last and Hammerfell is eager for a solidified alliance between us. Even if they will not re-join the Empire, they would stand with us against outer foes. They remember the Great War as well as us, they know what befalls the populace of _any_ place the Thalmor take. Morrowind was the final piece I dared to hope for, and your father has performed exemplarily thus far…"

 _The Empire is still not unified though, is it?_ Valerian wanted to ask, but knew better not to. The state of the Empire was an unending source of grief for his family, father and grandfather both, and to ask would be to dredge up the wound once more. So, instead he'd rather steer towards brighter thoughts.

"Is there any way in which I can help?"

The question was earnest, for more than anything he wanted to ease the burden of his grandfather, the burden that would one day be his father's and then one day again his own. Wandering between tutors and instructors, he felt as if he simply threw away time better spent helping his people. His grandfather's eyes gained a thoughtful gaze, as if new ideas had been sparked by the simple question of an eager youth.

"Nurture this friendship of yours with Omluard's daughter." He said at last, his tone soft; "His is a loyal House, and I would see him gain from his unwavering support."

"Of course." Valerian nodded, a little surprised that such would be seen as helping. The task was a pleasant one, though, for he enjoyed Alai's company more every time they were together; "She is a good friend."

The Emperor smiled.

"I am glad to hear it."

* * *

It was not often, that the King and Queen of Ferelden were afforded quiet evenings.

For the past months, any free time either might have had was swallowed up by the war, and meetings with either Belisarius or his subordinates. And if not them, then it was nobles petitioning to have soldiers leeched from the front to protect their lands from Darkspawn or bandits.

Ferelden was in a bad place, there was little use denying that. Beyond the immediate problems of Gaspard and the Exalted March, they had become almost entirely ostracized from the wider community. The Free Marches, gripped in religious bloodlust and the chance to cut the teeth of its landsknecht forces, eagerly followed the Chantry in absolute condemnation of their southern neighbour. Nevarra, faithful as ever, had sided with the Chantry even if he suspected they did not approve of Orlais' invasion. Antiva and Seheron both remained indifferent to them, so at least they were not yet enemies as well.

Adding to their troubles, Ferelden would normally just barely have been capable of holding off such a number of foes, but the timing could not have been worse. The Blight had devastated the southern Bannorns, and ripped away a large part of the infrastructure. It meant that, even with the Legion putting the bodies of its own men on the line, it was harder than hard to keep them fed.

The peasants that should have been out ploughing and seeding were instead either crippled, dead or levied into the army. The aftermath of the Blight, he thought, was almost as bad as the Blight itself. Starvation was going to hit them when winter came, if the coalition of their supposed fellow Andrastians didn't put his country to the torch first.

Fergus mulled over the situation, staring at the wine swirling around within his cup. He'd held the hope of alcohol at least taking his mind somewhat off the situation, grim as it was. As it was… _As it is_ , he sighed, putting down the cup. Alcohol was doing him no good.

The world felt like it had turned upside down, recently. Andrastians killing each other in Andraste's name, Exalted Marches and the world just in general being so, so much wider than anyone of them had likely ever suspected. Certainly he hadn't, and to think that mage girl he'd briefly met back in Highever was but the taste of what was to come…

"Fergus?"

It was not so much with a start as it was a receding numbness, that he realized Anora was talking. Fergus rubbed some of the weariness from his face, looking up to see his wife watching him, sharp eyes soft with concern. They were as beset with bags as his own were, slightly red from the lack of sleep. And yet she soldiered on, with a strength he doubted many expected from her fragile frame.

"I'm...mm, yes?"

"You didn't hear anything I just said, did you?" there was neither accusation nor admonishment to be found in her words, rather simple worry. He did not entirely feel deserving of it, when he was falling into wine whilst she yet worked. He sighed, taking a moment to focus before meeting her gaze again. By the Maker, he felt worn out. Stretched, like too little butter over too much bread. She handed him the paper, parchment of a quality only they and the Chantry could usually afford; "It's from the Chantry Conclave…Do you want me to read it?"

"No…no, I'm…tired." He admitted, eyes falling on the writings of…some Chantry clerk he couldn't name nor care about; "Maker's Breath, Anora…I never thought it'd end up like this."

"As King of Ferelden?" there was some dry amusement in her voice, and the fact that she could muster even that much was to him a miracle in its own right. He shook his head, unable to focus on the parchment in his hand. She truly was a pillar, a rock of support, and it was clear she knew what he meant; "I know, Fergus. The world has changed much in the past year. Our lives have changed in ways none of us could predict."

"I'm sure my father would have something to say…" he muttered, tired but uplifted at least by her words, as well as the warmth between them.

"As would mine." Anora hummed, pushing out her chair from the table. Fergus watched her, idly wondering if he was to do the same or actually read the document from the Chantry. It was probably important. Anora yawned, a delicate and refined yawn, but a yawn nonetheless, and beckoned him to follow; "Come, join me on the couch."

It would be a lie, had he tried claiming he wasn't tired. He was, Maker knew it, and he knew Anora was too. Still, there were worse ways to spend the evening, and in truth he'd found little use for the wine. With a creaking of his bones, and the rattling of his ankle-brace, he joined her on the cushions. Anora leaned against him, her eyes closed as his arm found her waist.

It was still strange to him, that he could find such peace again after having lost it once already. Anora was a woman of unparalleled strength and drive, but she was still just a woman. She grew tired, weary and worn, and it felt already as if she had fallen asleep against his chest.

"…the Conclave…" Anora started, revealing that she hadn't fallen asleep after all, though her voice was drowsy and slow, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. He felt her suppress a yawn as she continued, maybe aware that he'd left behind the parchment at the table; "…they report an… _impending_ referendum."

"…A referendum?" he asked, his own voice little more than a mutter as he stroked her golden hair. Love, if this was what it was, had come between them in strange, staggering steps. He couldn't entirely point to when they had transitioned from comfortable partners to an earnest couple, but it felt like there was little doubt these days that he did love her, and that she reciprocated the feelings; "What sort?"

Anora didn't answer him for a moment, and for a moment he thought she slept. She didn't, it turned out, and simply enjoyed the tender caressing. It warmed him inside, that he could still experience such closeness with a woman. That even with the horrors Howe had inflicted upon him, even with…even with Oren and Oriana…with them _gone_. He'd thought that the end, that he could never love again.

His wife, his Queen, pressed a little tighter against him, like a pet cat craving affection.

He wondered, then, if any of the nobles might ever be able to imagine their Queen like this. It was a pleasure and a privilege reserved entirely for him, and one he wondered how and why Cailan could ever have squandered in favour of whores.

"A vote, more or less…" Anora mumbled, her eyes closed as a small smile creased her lips. Even with the stress and strain, he noticed she'd smiled a great deal more lately; "At the start of the conflicts, they…sent an envoy to the Divine, demanding…well, _pleading_ might…be the better word…that she call off the Exalted March…"

"She didn't, clearly." Fergus noted, content with saying no more for now. That they were even now allowed to sit like this, he knew whom to thank for it, much as his emotions conflicted on the subject. Alma, his old nan…what kind of being was she, truly? _Who_ was she, that she had served his family for so long, with such power, and yet done nothing to save his parents? His father was dead, and his mother only lived by the graces of Ser Gilmore's boundless loyalty; "What, then?"

"That's…all it said." She muttered, a yawn interrupting her halfway through; "They are… _voting_ , on how to respond. I can't rightly imagine how."

Fergus hummed, not knowing what else to respond. Instead he merely continued stroking Anora, finding in her some light in the darkness of the war. When he had agreed to her proposal, back during the Blight, he would not ever have imagined scenes such as this playing out. He was tired, worn and frustrated with everything and everyone beyond the palace walls, but… _here_ , there was solace. Anora, fierce temper and ceaseless drive, his rock in the unsteady waters.

It was odd, he realized, that such familiarity had come so soon. Neither were they new to matrimony, and maybe the loss had helped them both see the need for companionship and love. Whichever it was, he couldn't say, only that he could no longer tell if he would take the offer, would any come to revert time to before the Blight.

Did that make him a monster?

"Don't…stop…" Anora's mutterings made him aware that his thoughts had ceased his movements, and that she very much disapproved. It was a striking contrast - as were many of their private moments - to the fierceness with which she confronted the world; "Fergus, there's…something…"

He waited, for a moment, to see if she would continue on her own. They were both of them nearing the edge of consciousness, he felt, and beyond it was sleep in awkward positions. The servants would have a laugh.

"Something?" he asked, the sleepiness in her voice no less than his own. It would not be the first time they fell asleep like this. It usually led to stiff limbs, and did few favours for his leg.

Anora hummed, almost a light snore, shifting how she lay against him. Like a cat, or maybe more accurate it would be to say she shuffled around like a hound, until she came to rest on his thighs. The effort had completely unmade her hair bun, now a frizzled mess, like gorse, standing out and covering half her face. She was not at all heavy, but very much warm against him. Her breathing betrayed why she'd stopped talking.

" _Mmmmhhh_ …"

She had fallen asleep, he realized with some wry amusement. At the same time, in her efforts to put her head on his lap, she'd grabbed one of his hands and ended up with in, now unconsciously held against her stomach. Though she had not spoken of her thoughts, Fergus suspected they were now the cause of pleasant dreams.

* * *

Gherlen's Pass was in a phase of steady rebuilding, as well as receiving fresh recruits from the villages and towns of the neighbouring bannorns. Soldiers of both Fereldan and Imperial heraldries marched and patrolled, and officers hounded the greenhorns around like whipped dogs.

It was like an anthill ripped open, yet surprisingly orderly for it.

"I…don't think we're going to get through _that_." Phillipe muttered, moving back into the shadows and cover of the wood line. Once it had clearly extended at least another hundred feet towards the camp, but lumberjacks and the tracks from sleds betrayed easily enough where all those trees had gone to.

Illia waited for him, further in, hidden well in the dense foliage as well as the wagon and the mule. After their less-than pleasant encounter with the demonic woman in the night, they had made their way back towards the border. The word on the road, however, was that the Kincaster Crossing, where _they_ had entered Ferelden, was now entirely impassable.

So, short of going south of the Frostbacks or - Maker forbid - _over_ them, he knew only of this route. He had known, of course, that this was where the defences were, and where there would probably be a camp, but…

"It's not a camp, it's a fort." He told the elf when he came close enough that a low voice would suffice; "Thousands of soldiers, and there seems to be new recruits trickling in. I could not see for us a way to make it through, not even at night."

"That's…" Illia paused, rubbing at her temples; "Damn it, that's not gonna work then. What's the plan?"

He had one, actually, though he also had enough integrity to realize it wasn't really a _good_ plan, per se. When spying on the Imperials, he had noticed some spoke with accents remarkably close to Orlesians, though the differences were noticeable. At first it had given him the idea of stealing the armor of the foreign soldiers, posing as them to make it through the camp.

That was the plan he had scrapped, realizing how easily he would be recognized as not one of them. More than that, there would be no way Illia could pretend to be from across the seas, at least as far as he knew. He'd yet not seen a single elf amongst the outlanders, but plenty enough of those green, Qunari-like brutes. For all he knew, there _were_ no elves among them, and she would be caught.

Not a thought he appreciated.

In truth, he had grown rather fond of his companion, much as he knew this was simply a partnership of the Emperor's convenience. Once they were back in Orlais - and by Andraste he would get them back to Orlais - it would end, and they would go each their way. Also, this one, not a thought he appreciated.

"Swear you will not laugh at me." He said, and she rose a brow at this.

"I make no such promises."

"… _Maker_ " Phillipe muttered, slumping down with his back against an oak so broad and tall, it was probably older than Ferelden as a nation. Apparently the locals had never gotten around to large-scale foresting. Illia, maybe not so appreciative of the flora, watched him intently. It still struck him how normal she made a peasant's garb appear on her, when likely all she had worn until the war was robes; "So, they are ceaselessly receiving new recruits, and it seemed the Fereldan army does little in the way of scrutiny."

"You can't fault them, they likely lost a great deal of men against our forces." She nodded; "I'd imagine it's a right mess."

"Yes…well, the only way I can see of us having a shot at getting through…" he could already see the mounting disapproval in her face, which he tried hard to persevere through; "We play the role of recruits, volunteers who lost it all in Portsmouth. I'd imagine the story alone might see us through."

For several long, tense moments, Illia merely watched him, though he could see her mind in work, behind those sharp eyes of hers. The scene reminded him in a way of awaiting a scolding from one of his older sisters back in Lydes.

Finally, Illia broke the silence with a sigh.

"It is _…not_ a good plan, Phillipe." She started, raising a hand before he could argue that he _knew_ it wasn't, but it was the only one he had; "But, short of trying to make our way across the mountains, I can't see any that's better…"

He waited for her to continue, as it was clear she would. She had not outright dismissed his idea, only pointing out what he already knew well enough himself, that such a plan was dangerous and foolhardy.

"...All the same, we should make our report and do nothing more tonight."

They moved deeper into the woods, far enough away that not even the signal horns or yells of Gherlen's Pass could be heard. All around them, it was dark pine and a carpet of brown needles and fir cones, and only when even the sun was blotted out and naught but falling twigs and their own footsteps could be heard, did they stop. Moving the cart around was made easier by the cover, evening out at least the worst of the uneven forest floor.

Illia pulled out the pendant given to her by the Emperor, imbuing it with her own magic until the glass stone in its center began to glow with a soft, golden hue. Magic was fascinating, no matter how many times he saw it in use.

"Emperor." Illia spoke.

" _Serah Illia."_ The disembodied voice was impossible to mistake, though there was strange relief in the tone; _"It is well you have avoided capture. The campaign has been temporarily postponed, as threats have emerged from the north. I am gathering a force to meet the invaders in the field, are you yet returned to Orlais? I require you both in the field."_

"…no, Excellency." She knelt, though Phillipe knew there was no way their sovereign could see them; "The Kincaster crossing appears impassable, and Gherlen's Pass is too heavily patrolled for us to attempt passage."

" _I see."_ For a moment, that was all he said, and Phillipe began to wonder if they were meant to continue, but then the Emperor spoke again. Their liege was disappointed, no doubt, viewing this as a failing of theirs; _"What is the situation at the Pass?"_

"Crowded." The Chevalier said when Illia looked to him; "The foreigners and the Fereldan army have set up a war camp at the pass, a fort more like. They seem to be actively recruiting and training forces to replace the ones lost in the battle."

" _A great number of our forces were taken prisoner after the battle. Could you see them?"_

"I saw only foreign and Fereldan soldiers, Excellency." In hindsight he should have watched for their own forces as well, but up unto now he'd not even known there _were_ prisoners. All they knew was that the battle was lost, and naught but that.

" _Damnable…Then, I have a mission for you, Chevalier, if you feel capable of another one such. The failure of your original task is no fault of yours, either of you."_ The Emperor said, seeming almost to put emphasis on the last part. Phillipe felt his chest lighten, even if only a little; _"The task is a harrowing one, and normally not what I would entrust to Chevaliers."_

"I am always able, Excellency."

"… _you do your House credit, Phillipe de Lydes."_ Their liege said, and he felt like Illia gave a small nod, just beyond the edge of his eye. Was he meant to not notice that, or was it simply his imagination? _"I need information on the enemy forces. Troop numbers, positions, activities, tactics, whatever you can provide. Infiltrate their forces somehow, and relay with Illia back to me."_

Phillipe felt a shiver running the length of his back, right to the nape of his neck and upwards. He was glad their liege couldn't see him, or he would have noticed, surely. To simply sneak through the enemy forces was one thing, but to infiltrate and spy on them? Spies were at best locked away forever if caught, though he remembered well enough what they had done with Celene's spies during the civil war.

All the same, he knew that despite the Emperor's polite tone, this was no request. He had already agreed to serve, and now serve he would have to.

"It will be done, Excellency." His voice felt dry as he spoke. Was it fate in all its cruelty, driving him towards the most dangerous of tasks?

" _Take no unnecessary risks, Ser. Work well together and maintain as low a profile as you can."_ A second passed where none spoke; _"Serah Illia, I trust you to maintain communications as before. Aid Ser Phillipe however you are able. Maker go with you."_

"As you say, Excellency." She nodded.

The light dimmed from the glass, and the voice disappeared, leaving them once more in the silence of the deep woods. It was all the quieter now, in contrast to the conversation before, and felt somehow more oppressive.

Illia's eyes were on him again, both pity and irritation in her gaze.

"The Maker must have an odd sense of humor." She finally sighed, rubbing her eyebrows.

"It would appear so..."

"Well, at least you won't have to discard your plan, it seems." She mused, sardonic wit mixed within her weary voice.

"T'would appear so..." Phillipe repeated, slumped against the tree once again; "Andraste's Mercy...me, _a spy_?"

"Wasn't that part of your Chevalier training?"

"If it was, I must have overslept that day..." he muttered, a sense of resignation creeping over him. He would do this, yes, but he did not like it. He would do it, because he was the only one available for it. Illia would draw too much attention if she showed up on her lonesome to join, and if she was revealed to be a mage it would attract far too great scrutiny; "I am, by the way, very much open to improvements to the plan."

Illia nodded, though she said nothing.

Instead her expression fell into contemplation, and remained quiet for a time. Phillipe leaned back against the tree once more, eyes on the canopy above them. Pine branches with so little light permitted through that they almost appeared black, a sky of green rather than blue. Was it evening? Midday? Who could tell in this roofed world? Was this how the dwarves viewed the passing of time, he wondered. They too had ceilings above them at all times, didn't they?

If he was caught, at best he would be looking at another kind of ceiling for a very long time. The ceiling of a cell, if he was lucky. Chances were greater they would simply draw and quarter him on the spot. He feared such a fate more so than any death in battle. What was Charles doing now, was his next thought. If their forces were pulling out of Ferelden to meet another threat from the north, did that mean Charles was now back in Orlais? Had he been part of the forces attacking the Fereldans and the Imperials from behind, and if so, where was he now? Dead? Prisoner?

War was a mess of uncertainty and chaotic confusion. He'd found this out early on in the fight against Celene's loyalists, but at least then he had been a simple soldier, just another mounted man-at-arms. Now, it was a very different game altogether. Phillipe closed his eyes and sighed.

" _Merde..._ "

* * *

South, far south of the Imperial city, on the eastern banks of the Niben, small, light boats made landfall in the darkness of a moonless night.

There was no sound as the vessels were dragged ashore, nor as the crew, all as one garbed in black, scurried across the sand. They barely even left behind imprints of feet, and would to any onlooker appear little more than passing shadows, though there were none. A small flock they were, no more so than two dozen, flickering from the sea to the woodland with a grace unbecoming of men.

The town of Wlonia hugged the bay where ocean turned inwards to river. Compared to Leyawiin, it was barely worthy of being termed a village, itself little more than gathering of houses along the waterfront, centered around a town square with a chantry to Mara at its center, and before it a fountain as lovely as any.

The first to die was a drunk, staggering around beyond the stockade gates. He made no sounds but a quiet gurgle as his throat was slit, calculating and precise hands lowering him to the ground less so for compassion than to lessen the noise his fall would have made.

Only a dozen meters away, the city guards kept watch at the gate, and atop the stockades. They were, as most within the Imperial province, garbed in but gambesons and skullcaps, halberds in hand. Bandits and raiders, no doubt they knew well enough, and awareness shone from their stances. Maybe one noticed the drunkard had ceased his intoxicated murmurs, and thought him finally asleep to rid them of his noise.

Like shades, their own shadows grew out behind them, as if emerging from the very woodwork of the walls. Knives slit flesh and arteries, leaving the men to drown in their own blood as they were lowered to the ground, no more nor less so gentle than the death of the drunkard.

Then, like shadows of death, they entered through the gates, slipping into the darkness and the corners. Even upon cobblestone they made no sound, barely even the creaking of doors betrayed them when they slipped within houses and homes. No man was allowed to yell, no woman to scream and no child to wail as spells of silence and knives of blackened steel went the rounds. Only the blood-stained footprints betrayed the passing of the shadows as they flickered about.

It was not even an hour before they returned to their boats, pushing out their vessels with the same, absolute silence as when they had arrived. The tide would wash away even the tracks of the keels.

In the morning, not a living soul remained in Wlonia, nor of beasts nor men. Only in the plaza fountain was there proof it had ever held life, as within the granite basins had been stacked the heads of Wlonia's populace.


	47. Daveth and the Dwarf

**Daveth and the Dwarf**

 **or**

 **The Emperor's Finances**

* * *

The _Hanged_ _Man_.

Honestly, it seemed a trend amongst the Free Marchers to be as depressive as possible. Daveth spent a moment, staring at the dangling figure above the door, painted red and looking like a man in his final throes of death. Like most of the alehouses and inns, it was crammed up in Lowtown, thrown into the same dirty, stained marble facades that probably had once been some pristine work of architecture when it was run by the Tevinters. A large message board was nailed to the wall next to the main entrance, bearing mostly odd jobs, bounties, news or just the commonplace condemnations of the Fereldan heathens.

He ripped down one of the jobs, detailing pest control of the anthropomorphic kind. Given that he couldn't read much more than the basics, he was just going for the numbers scribbled on, and the word "bandit". Thugs, bandits, robbers and thieves, it was almost funny how even religious fervour couldn't quench mankind's thirst for the property of others. Funnier still, that he had once been the kind of person such a bounty was offered for.

Unlike Hightown, where the streets were clad in tiles of stone, here at best cobblestone might keep your feet dry from the mud of the rainfalls. Far more usual was the simple, stamped dirt of the streets leading to Darktown, where the dregs of society was hidden away. That, and the ever-present spikes jutting from stairs and walls, as if the architects of the city had wanted to kill off the drunkards by impaling them in their intoxicated wanderings.

Then again, it was _Tevinter_. He wasn't going to rule it out.

He'd spent the week going from tavern to tavern, from one piss-stained alehouse to the next. Kirkwall was almost as big as Denerim, and had even more of such places. For one man, such a search was time-consuming to the point of frustration. Each night one of disappointment as the so-called "ones in the know" had turned out next to useless. Almost none of them had even heard of elves in rent weeks, and those who had talked instead of city elves who'd always lived in Kirkwall, Dalish passer-by's or mages from the Gallows.

The Hanged Man was his last stop, before he turned to Darktown, where the risks of catching a crossbow bolt to the back were high enough that he'd stayed away so far. Warden or not, he was of no illusions as to his own vulnerability, and he hadn't survived the Blight just to die here.

Inside, just like all the other places of its kind, the bar reeked of stale piss and vomit. A wooden floor, well swept and in places stained with wine, creaked with every step he took. The place was, at least, bigger than most other of its kind, and had a higher ceiling. So, it wasn't nearly as claustrophobic as the other bars and taverns, at least. That, and it was pretty well lit, with wax candles and a wooden chandelier dangling from the loft.

The bar, a solid, low wall of carved rock, seemed well enough stocked that the customers were a given. Daveth nodded to himself, taking it as a sign that the information brokers here might be better "in the know", as they said. Apparently, the Hanged Man was one of the most popular taverns in Lowtown, but then again the same was said about every other tavern, bar and alehouse in the districts. It was all a matter of who you asked.

"What're you having?"

Daveth was, for a moment, sure as fuck he was standing before a ghost. Slim the cheeks down just a notch, and it'd be Alistair in the flesh, blonde hair, nose, the whole damn package. He shook the image off, forcing such thoughts to be back of his mind before they arrived at that funeral pyre they'd held for him. Fucking depressing thing, that was.

"What's good?"

"Good, or affordable?" the barkeep scoffed; "Might not look like it, but I got stuff here them well-offs in Hightown would serve."

"Any descent ale?" Daveth asked, annoyed already. He wasn't even sure if it was because of the barkeep, or simply the memories his face brought up.

"Nevarran Dark, eight cobber." He nodded at the man, fishing out the metal pieces from his pouch. He knew the price already, because it was the same in every damn place he'd been so far. Either it was a conspiracy or a law, that set the price; "You're not one of those refugees, are you?"

"Do I look like one?" Daveth groused, aware that he did not. Splintmail and a sheathed sword generally tended to make one stand out from such a crowd., even if the former was mostly hidden away beneath his jacket. He took the ale with a nod.

"Sound like one, is all." There was little warmth in the man's voice now; "Fereldans aren't really much liked around here, see."

"I've gathered." He sniffed the ale then, just to be sure. It seemed fine, and smelled fine too, and he'd kept an eye on it from the first drop was poured from the tankard. It wasn't spiked; "Yet, you're serving."

"You're paying."

"I am…" Daveth paused, putting down the mug. He eyed the rest of the tavern, taking in the customers. A few tables were bedecked with sleeping drunkards, more with the same but loudly awake, and...a dwarf. There was just one non-human in the whole place, and that alone was a little curious. All the other places held both elves, dwarves and men; "I'm also pretty interested in some rumors I heard recently."

"Oh?" the shadow of a smirk found the barkeep's face; "Well, do tell."

"Heard a large group of elves passed through or by Kirkwall not that long ago." He paused, taking a drink. Honestly, not the worst ale he'd had yet; "Came by boat from Ferelden. Got anything on that?"

"That's..." the barkeep paused, his smile gone; "...not the kind of rumors I'm about. It's not my business, and I'd rather it stayed that way, if you understand."

"Whose is it, then?" Daveth pressed, the taste of ale turning to ashes on his tongue; "I'm _really_ curious."

"You shouldn't be, folk end up dead that way." Daveth held his eyes, not allowing for the barkeep to back off. He _knew_ something. The man's voice had fallen to a mutter, as if he feared being heard; "...Varric might know. He's the one putting up the jobs on street crime on the board outside...him or the guards, but the guards couldn't find their own socks if they were already on."

"Fine." It wasn't, but at least he had a lead; "Where do I find Varric, then? Hightown?"

"He's..." the barkeep froze in the middle of a gesture, finger half raised. Daveth noticed it was in the same direction as the dwarf, though now he was no longer alone; "That's...probably not going to work now."

Three men, each looking like the poster boy for a dockhand, crowded around the dwarf's table. There was little real doubt on whether they were his friends or not. Mostly it was the cudgels.

"Trouble?"

"Trouble." The barkeep muttered; "Varric - that's him, by the way - is... _good_ at cards. Like, _real_ good. Sometimes folks think he cheats."

"Does he?" Daveth asked, leaning against the bar, his eyes on the scene.

"Varric's a smug bastard and a right whoreson, but he's not a cheat." There was a pause; "...I think. Never seen him cheat, at least..."

"They're gonna beat the shit out of him?"

"Probably. Not much I can do about it." The barkeep shrugged; "Recently he started running with some Fereldans. Hawke usually steps in 'fore things get too rowdy, but the association hasn't exactly shortened the list of people wanting a piece of him..."

"But he's the one to ask about the elves?"

"He'd be, yeah."

" _Right_..." Daveth downed the rest of the Nevarran Dark, no way he was letting it go to waste, and stepped out from the bar; "I'll be right back."

The scene at the table would have been hilarious, if not because it centered around a dwarf he apparently needed coherent - a quality usually lost after a beating. Three men who might as well have been Sten's siblings, doing their best to intimidate a very much smaller dwarf.

"Gentlemen, that's not a very nice thing to accuse someone of." Daveth caught the dwarf's words; "I know, I know, it's easy to make the mistake. Losing's never fun, I've been there enough to know."

"Where's my money, Halfling?"

"In your purse, I should hope." Varric said, gesturing at the leather pouch dangling from the man's belt; "...ouch, though I must say it's...looking rather flat."

"You lot botherin' my comrade here?" Daveth oiled up the accent he knew an upbringing in the Alienage produced, stepping close enough that none could now ignore him. Varric, more than the men, seemed surprised at his entrance. "Varric, those guys messing with you?"

J'zargo would have been proud of his capacity for bullshitting, he felt. For a moment, all around the table, the dwarf included, paused, as if unsure of how exactly the hell to react to an armed stranger calling them out. The curved blade hanging from his belt was a great deal better at ending lives than the blackjacks and cudgels those three held.

Though, maybe it was because spilling blood in a tavern was generally frowned upon.

" _fuck_ are you gettin' 'volved for?" Daveth could have winced, even the Alienage didn't produce _that_ kind of slurred mockery of the common tongue.

"Thom, old friend." Varric's grin as painted on as could get, but at least the dwarf wasn't dumb enough to ruin it; "These fine gentlemen were just...a little disappointed about our last game. I'm sure no harm's meant."

"None's bound either, 'long as you give us back our money."

"Gentlemen..." Varric folded his hands; "That's...not how gambling works. Why don't you take this as a valuable lesson in picking your opponents?"

"I'm thinking you should leave my friend here alone." Daveth stepped closer, his voice harder but still with the same cheerful tone; "No need for anything unpleasant."

Best thing to make them leave without breaking a table. Of course, the world had never been his friend in these things, as was now becoming apparent once more. It was probably the alcohol, bane of mankind as the Revered Mother had always taught them, that made one of them move on him, blackjack already swinging.

Daveth had him on the ground so fast it seemed to take a moment before the ruffian even realized it. In his own defense - and praise - he was pretty sure he hadn't broken any of the man's bone. But the strength and reflexes of a Grey Warden meant any fight with unarmed human was...not exactly a fair one.

"Hort!" both men now turned away from Varric; "Prick! I'll fuckin' chip you for that!"

* * *

The Tower of Magi felt a lot emptier, these days.

Wynne had resigned herself to that, the knowledge that mages could now actually leave the Tower, if not freely. Each who left went through talks with both her and Greagoir, to ensure their mental readiness for the world outside. Magic, much as it was a gift, also presented tremendous temptations, and the risks of corruption not at all related to demons.

A great deal had already left, some to join the army, willing to put themselves in the line of danger as they had during the Blight. She could respect such devotion to Ferelden, even if it might only partially have been their motivation. Others had wanted to join the Legion, supervised by the foreigners' own mages. She found it hard to trust in the competence of strangers when it came to the care of Circle mages, most of all for the lack of experience they would have when it came to the threat of possession. No matter how competent the outlanders' mages were in their own right, only the Circle really understood the risks of magic in Thedas.

Some mages, however, had chosen to remain. Mostly this was for the simple fact that for the longest time, the Circle was the only home they knew. Most mages had come to the Circle when their magic manifested as children, and had grown up with the walls of the Tower, the guidance of their elders and the protection of the Templars. She didn't know if they yet had made contact with their families outside, or how many even still considered such to _be_ family. Her own...she didn't recall much of them. Irving had become her family, an older brother of sorts quite soon after she arrived. If she had regrets, it was that the child she had borne had been taken from her.

She had only once truly come close to finding a replacement, if a mother could ever even consider replacing a child taken from them. A spitfire of an elf, a tiny girl the day she had arrived, had more or less taken that place by force. Her inabilities with magic beyond entropy had turned away most of the enchanters who would have tutored her.

She still wondered, in her soul, whether she had taken up that mantle for the sake of teaching a lost child, or if it had been...a more selfish endeavor, to fill out a void. It was all the same, of course, for the results had never truly come. Cíada had remained incapable of anything but entropic spells, a fate the girl cursed herself for more so than she did - and should - blame Wynne.

She was torn from her thoughts when that very same voice she had grown used to, echoed through the halls with the frantic energy of an ecstatic child.

"Wynne! Wynne! WynneWynneWynneWynneWynne!" Cíada, for all that she technically was a woman grown, tore through the corridors like a wild cat, forcing even Templars to step aside or simply find themselves run through by the four-feet avalanche; "WYNNE! WYNNE! WYNNE! You've gotta see this! Gotta FUCKING see this!"

Wynne remained stoically unmoved, even when her student barely managed to stop herself mere inches from collision. Cíada looked like she'd run from the shore and straight up here, an achievement in itself considering the stairs.

"Language, Cíada." Through the admonishment, she could not hide away the smile, reunited with the elven mage; "How was your time outside? I heard Amaranthine was attacked."

"It was AWESOME!" Cíada was bouncing on the spot, unable to contain herself. Wynne only now noticed the small vial in her clenched hand, a blue liquid slushing around within. A lyrium potion? Her eyes were noticed, of course, and the vial was thrust at her face; "Oh shit, Wynne! Look!"

"I am looking, Cíada."

" _Guess_ what this is!"

"...I would wager it might be a vial containing lyrium potion?" Wynne smiled.

" _NOPE_!" Cíada's grin could not have been wider; "It's a _magicka_ potion!"

"I see." She required a moment to recall what such was, until it struck her that the mages from Tamriel, Talia foremost among them, used such potions in place of lyrium. It was essentially the counterpart, though she doubted it would work with Templars, given that the Empire apparently had none; "Is there something...special, about it?"

"Hey! Hey Wynne!" Cíada continued; "What'd you think happens if I drink this?"

"I...couldn't say." Wynne admitted, though she much suspected that the results might be quite similar to the effects of common lyrium. After all, Talia had reacted to Lyrium in exactly the same way as Circle mages.

"Oh man, you're gonna drop your _socks_." Her student snickered, removing the cork stopper. Before Wynne could council on whether or not such was wise, Cíada had washed the entire thing down. The girl blanched; "Oh...right, I...forgot the taste... _bleh..._ "

"...Cíada?"

"Just...gimme...a moment..." Wynne's concern grew as it seemed her student was about to hurl on the floor. Cíada bent over, one hand on her knee the other in the air as if to forestall interjections; "Maker's _ass_ this tastes like shit..."

"...why did you drink it then?" Wynne asked; "Are you..."

"Oh I'm _fine_ , is just...Brelyna said it was an acquired taste... _Man_ she wasn't kidding." With a deep breath, Cíada stood upright again, beads of sweat dotting her face; "Okay...maybe...a few steps back?"

Wynne did as she was advised, though her apprehension grew as her student assumed a stance as if prepared to cast spellfire. Cíada frowned, her expression one of intense concentration as she stretched out her arm, palm flat.

Sparks danced across her skin, widely grinning lips parting to speak, or yell;

"Explo-"

It was only years of arcane studies, and having survived the Blight, that gave Wynne the instinctual urge to throw up a shield between them. That split second was her saving grace, as the air around Cíada combusted. The detonation was powerful enough that it brought her barrier to the breaking point, and threw Cíada back down the hallway.

In the girl's path appeared a Templar, his helmet removed to reveal Ser Boris.

"First Encha-"

He was allowed no more, as Cíada struck him like fired from a catapult, sending both her and the Templar to the ground in a heap of arms and legs. Wynne remained in place, frozen with disbelief at the sight before her, as well as the black-scorched mark now etched into the place her student had previously occupied.

"Ooohhh..." the Templar groaned; " _goddamit..._ "

"DID YOU SEE THAT!?" Cíada yelled, already on her feet again, bouncing like she hadn't just been thrown into by an explosion. And that, Wynne realized with shock, was almost the most unreal of it all. Cíada had _never_ been capable of even encroaching on the elemental school, yet...yet here, right now... "WYNNE! DID YOU SEE THAT, WYNNE?!"

"Why can't Cullen get this kind of shit..."

Wynne pitied Ser Boris, she did, truly. But even more so, she was dumbfounded at what had just transpired. Cíada, by every means of testing she had ever been subjected to, had never been capable of such magic.

What astounded her even more, now that she no longer felt the adrenaline coursing through her, was that she had felt no tug on the Fade. There had been nothing, not even the tiniest tendril or flickering sensation of her student drawing on the Fade to cast the spell.

For the first time in decades, Wynne was left entirely without explanation.

* * *

Daveth sighed, rolling his shoulders.

On the floor around him, spread out like the first dockhand, the other two ruffians had been encouraged to enjoy the comforts of the stamped dirt for a while longer. Out cold, really, and he hadn't even done much more than to the first guy.

Varric, at least, seemed appreciative of the show, letting a low whistle go at the sight. Or, maybe it was because no one had really gotten all that hurt?

"Impressive." The dwarf said, wide eyes still on the downed figures; "You're a fast one, anyone ever told you that?"

"Plenty."

"So..." Varric nodded, taking the cue, maybe; "You know, I'm _very_ good with faces. I don't think we've met before. Corff mentioned me?"

A nod towards the bar was enough for Daveth to catch on. Well, at least the barkeep wasn't named _Alastaire_ or something like that. Looks alone were unnerving enough, honestly. It'd also have been a hilariously refined name for someone working a bar in a place like Lowtown.

Varric leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his gut as if to better display the broad, open patch of thick chest hair his jacket revealed. Daveth blanched, suddenly feeling self-conscious at the sight. The grin on the dwarf's face was enough to indicate he'd not hid his thoughts well enough.

"Well, Varric Tethras, as you already know, at your service, Ser...?"

"Daveth."

"Really? You _look_ like a Thom." Varric hummed; "Guessing from the accent you're Fereldan, and probably fresh off the boat."

"Maybe." Daveth hid his own satisfaction, to leave the dwarf guessing; "Hang with a lot of Fereldans, do you?"

"A few."

"Don't mind them?"

"Should I?" Varric asked.

"Well, we're all heretics, last I heard." Daveth hummed, letting indifference lace his words. Truth be told, as a devout Andrastian it was pissing him off something fierce.

"You're talking to a dwarf, good Ser Daveth."

"Mmm, I'd noticed."

"So, what can I do for you?" Varric cleared his throat; "... _Unless_ you just decided to help me out from the kindness of your heart?"

"Corff said you'd be the one to inquire with for rumors of the somewhat... darker variant."

Daveth watched him now, studying Varric's expression as he reacted to the words. There was a lot to understand about a man based on how he reacted to unpleasant subjects. Alistair had been a prime example, among other things.

"...I might be." Varric nodded slowly, straightening a little in his chair; "Depends, of course, on the variant in question. What're you looking for?"

"Any large groups of elves passed through Kirkwall recently?"

Varric frowned, the reaction enough that Daveth could feel his muscles tighten.

"... _how_ recently are we talking?"

"Yesterday to two months ago." He said, leaning forward; "Specifically, they would have come with a ship from Ferelden."

Varric closed his eyes at that, a deep intake of air as he leaned forward and rested on the back of his hands. Daveth watched him, eyes keen for any sign of recognition. If Varric didn't know, then...then, what? He would continue on to Darktown, he supposed, trying to scrounge anything up in the slums. Almost a full minute passed before the dwarf exhaled again, and opened his eyes.

"Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid." It was strange, that he was still surprised that he had parts of him that could die inside. But those words made him feel it, as his soul withered just a little more. Varric, however, wasn't finished; "But... I've contacts in both High, Low and Darktown. I can send an inquiry out, see if anyone's seen anything."

Daveth released a breath he hadn't quite conspicuously held back, feeling old beyond his years. Even with the shorter lifespan of a Warden, this was too much. He wouldn't be surprised if he woke up to grey hairs one morning.

"...sounds like a lot of effort."

"Probably is." Varric shrugged; "But so is a broken nose, or jaw, or skull. Plus, something about you, you know? You're giving me a good vibe."

"That's a first." Daveth muttered, though the words brought him back to the last night at Ostagar, his meeting with Aedan and Talia. Neither had seemed particularly impressed with him, back then. Probably weren't these days either, all things considered. Hopefully they were getting on alright without him. Hopefully, they would understand why this was something he _had_ to do; "What'll it cost me?"

"For me to send out the word?" the dwarf hummed; "I don't charge for that kind of thing. If I get something useful..." Varric glanced down at the unconscious ruffians, a small grin found his lips; "...consider it repayment for helping preserve the _Varric's Facial Structure_ foundation. We much appreciate your support."

Daveth was, for a moment, at a loss for words. It was a kindness he hadn't expected.

"...how'll I know when you get something back?" he asked instead, finding his breath hard to press for longer words.

"Take a room here, they're pretty cheap." Varric shrugged again; "You've got the coin?"

Daveth showed him the bounty paper for pest control. Ten Marks, the equivalent of fifty Sovereigns in Ferelden. The exchange rate was apparently somewhat skewed. Apparently, the Fereldan Sovereign had seen a marked decrease in value recently, much to no one's surprise. It meant the coin he'd arrived with would last him even shorter than he'd feared, and that work was a necessity if he had to remain in Kirkwall for more than a week.

"Yeah, I...have a bit of a thing going with the guards, to help ease the pressure. They pay me for distributing the tasks, see." Varric smiled; "You're interested?"

Daveth tapped the grip of his blade. He'd never had the same issues as Talia when it came to killing people over Darkspawn. Sure, he preferred killing Darkspawn for the simple good it was to the world

"...Just point me at their holdout."

* * *

"Name, Age?" the scribe watched him with no more interest than he had all the other recruits and volunteers before him; "Occupation?"

"Phillip Turner. Thirty-one." He answered, the surname odd on his tongue. Fereldan commoners had surnames, which in itself was an oxymoron. Surnames were given to _Sers_ , not to peasant. And yet, he'd not heard another one of the men before him reply with anything less; "Brewster, out of Portsmouth."

The choice of place he'd supposedly come from had been a last-minute one, really. A few other men before him had mentioned the same place, and the scribe had actually seemed sympathetic enough to disregard questioning. Which, apparently, _was_ a thing they did here, much as he'd though otherwise. That, and the men of Portsmouth seemed to confirm what he had long suspected, that the proximity to the border had led to a merge of dialects, and some sounded more Orlesian than he did himself.

"Another one...I see." The small man nodded, scribbling something in black ink; "Follow the line."

Nothing more was said, and Phillipe - now _Phillipe Turner_ \- was made to follow the line as it progressed, a snaking line of men that vanished into a barrack of timber and stone. He would have thought it the main fortress of the Legion Camp if not for there being several others of equal size, and a few even now in the midst of construction.

" _That went well."_ Illia's voice came into his mind, the ring on his left hand heating with the inlaid spell's activation. He was not yet at the point, it seemed, that mages couldn't surprise him with their ingenuity. The ring had been one she carried on her person, though he'd never seen her wear it; _"Do whatever they tell you to, and don't stand out."_

He would have snorted with amusement, that she so acted like he was a child incapable of responsible thinking. Only, if he'd done so it would likely have drawn eyes. Within the barrack was another desk, much like the scribe's, and here as well they asked for his name. A great piece of machinery stood behind the desk, a piece he recognized vaguely as belonging in a jewelry-forger's workshop. Once he'd said his name, the machine clamped down on a piece of metal, like a maw, and struck with the force of a great hammer.

"Your identification." The man behind the desk now handed him the small metal piece, and Phillipe realized it bore his name in crude, blocky letters. How was such achieved? Could the machine write, or was there magic afoot? "Keep it on you at all times."

He wasn't afforded the time to actually examine the creation, as the line carried him on. It was made clear rather quickly that this was no barrack, but rather the armory of the camp, if probably not the only one. Long rows of hauberks and brigandines stood from one end of the great hall to the next. This was where the line split into multiples, and each man was measured for his armor. Phillipe, in compliance with Illia's commands, obeyed when one of the Fereldans waved him over.

"Big one, huh?" the question was a rhetorical one, clearly, and Phillipe wasn't sure what he would have answered if it hadn't been. The man - who by all rights was his foe - wrapped him in thread with interspaced knots and the like, a method he recognized from the tailors in Lydes, though the instruments were cruder here; "Six-four by..."

Phillipe knew his own measurements well enough, and tuned out the tailor in favor of watching his surroundings, lifting his arms when prodded. The Fereldan army was well equipped, it seemed, and definitely better organized than they'd given them credit for. Or, was this the outlander's influence? Either way it was unexpected, and would lessen their own advantage over them. The next thing he noticed was the complete lack of arms of any sort within sight.

It was a curiosity, as the Orlesian army preferred its recruits getting accustomed to their weapons as soon as possible.

The armor he was given was simple gambeson and mail and a brigandine to wear over it, as well as linked metal to strap on his arms, though he knew from experience this was no armor to be underestimated. The mail was well-made, he could tell as much at once, and both gambeson and brigandine seemed almost new. On second inspection, the same seemed the case for all the other armor pieces in the hall. Ferelden wasn't sitting on their thumbs, that was for sure. There were gloves too, not quite gauntlets like he was accustomed to, but rather leather gloves that creaked when he put them on.

" _Amazing, you look just like all the other idiots now."_ Illia snickered; _"Phillipe de Lydes, Fereldan soldier."_

If only Charles could see him now, he'd have laughed himself to death.

* * *

The Elder Council was a sight, for certain.

Amongst those gathered, all bore the same expressions of concern, worry and mild disgust. No servants carried around refreshments nor did any scribes attend. This was, as some would term it, a meeting off the records. The Emperor had taken his seat, his own mood as sour as those of his countrymen around the table.

The news had come by messenger from Leyawiin, of the sacking of Wlonia. No one could determine exactly when the attack had happened, as not a soul had survived to provide a date. The garrison commander of Leyawiin, however, estimated no more than two days, three at the most from the time his men had investigated the strangely silent village. The bodies, according to the man, had not yet bloated enough for there to have passed a week by.

They had found the heads of every man, woman and child, stacked in the village fountain like some macabre shrine to the darkest of Daedra. The bodies remained where they had been slaughtered like cattle, swollen and soaked in pools of their own blood. Not a house had been spared, not even Mara's Chantry had remained untouched, wherein the priests had been cut down like dogs, their heads found among the rest of the townsfolk.

Titus remained silent, for a time, allowing the council to bicker and discuss. Suspects were raised on whims and fantasy, ranging from bandits to the mythic dawn, and naturally including the Thalmor as well. In spite of himself, the Thalmor were the only ones he somewhat doubted. They cared not at all for human lives, of course, and the atrocities they had committed in the Imperial City far surpassed even this butchery…but it had all been for specific purposes.

He could see no such purpose, nothing the Dominion could gain from wiping out a tiny hamlet such as Wlonia. Villages such as it were beyond numbers in the Imperial Province alone. It would be akin to trying to wipe out an anthill by stepping on the occasional ant. The bastards were patient, he knew, but even they had to have a limit. But, if this _was_ the Dominion, for he couldn't exclude them, then what was the goal?

What could they hope to achieve, that would outweigh the risk of open war?

The only real answer to that question, of course, was that the elves believed themselves prepared now, for round two. Thalmor arrogance was near boundless, he knew, but all the same they were no fools. If this was indeed their doing, and if they did indeed believe themselves ready to wipe mankind from Tamriel, as he knew they desired, then there could be no underestimating them.

Alternatively, cults like the Mythic Dawn had never shied from senseless bloodshed either. If this was some attempt at summoning Daedra, or opening rifts to Oblivion, then the worst course of action would be starting hostilities with the Dominion.

Either way, someone was killing his people, and it was clear the way it was being done was to send a message.

"I want the town garrisons doubled." He broke the bickering, though his voice was no louder than normal. All fell silent, turning their attention to him; "Road patrols are to be increased and the village militias to be strengthened. Send out word for the raising of a new Legion, and increase our efforts in Anequina."

"Excellency, the costs of such an effort…-"

"Will be met, Chancellor." He brokered no argument, and let Chancellor Valorum know as much. The aged man sat down, his posture deferent as Titus continued; "I am aware of the costs, my lords. But I do _not_ want a repeat of Wlonia, to find hundreds of innocents butchered like sheep. Raise taxes, tariffs, whatever you find necessary to fill our coffers. But, understand that I am not making a request here, nor a suggestion."

There was little happiness in the faces of his subjects, each no doubt worrying for the finances of such an undertaking. Some might even wish to argue that he was overreacting, that such measures weren't needed. But how many of those lords had been in attendance, thirty-one years ago, when the Dominion envoys spilled the heads of Blades onto the palace floor? Even now, decades later, he could still hear the wet _thumps_ , and see the stains on the floor so long washed.

"All of you know that it remains only a matter of time before the Dominion comes at us again." The room fell silent as he reminded them, irritated faces tensed up, expressions went slack. They all knew, of course. Every citizen of the Empire knew, to some degree, that the next war was inevitable as long as the Thalmor held power; "Whether or not this raid was of their making, we cannot afford to be seen as weak in its aftermath. If this _was_ of the Dominion's doing, then more will come…Even those among you who weren't here during the war, you know what the elves did to us, to this city. You know the scars that can't be mended, the blood-washed streets that couldn't be cleaned."

He waited, allowing the grimness of the memories to find their place. The brutalities the Dominion had visited upon his people, his subjects who _depended on him_ …he doubted if even Mehrunes Dagon could have surpassed them. He had returned, dark haired, to the Imperial City.

He entered the White-Gold Tower, hair turned white.


	48. For the Emperor

**For the Emperor**

* * *

General Tullus had been honest, it seemed, when he'd complained at the lack of additional officers.

Veruin glanced about, discretely, as the last of the other Legates filled into the command tent. Nine Legates beyond himself, all stood at attention and eyes forward, even as General Tullus himself was not yet present. They were just ten in total, a frightfully few men to steer such a military force.

Legate Aristes, a seasoned veteran he knew to be a capable rider, commanded the other mounted wing. He was among the younger of the senior officers, not yet beyond his forties, but carried enough scars to make it clear he was no pup green behind the ears. Typical of the Colovians, he had retained a moustache from ear to ear of thick, curly hair. Seeing him made Veruin feel a little less sorry for himself, knowing his colleague was under just as much stress as he.

"We should have been south of the damn border a week ago..." muttered Legate Tyrage Cinia, a southlander from Leyawiin, if memory served. She was tied with the land-based forces, and so Veruin had never had much interaction with the woman. Sourly and stern, with wrinkles of stress and strain rather than age, she gave off the impression of the bitter neighborhood woman whose man ran out on her, and she was still waiting for him to return to a proper paddling; "So much for the vaunted Highways."

"It's old work, Cinia." A more cheerful voice, if still serious, was Legate Carigus. Younger than Aristes with perhaps a year or two, Carigus could have been modelled by the Emperor himself and then slapped onto every recruitment poster in the Empire. A chiseled chin and a face Tiber Septim himself might have envied for its masculine beauty, it was a wonder he'd chosen the Legion rather than civilian life where women would have been far more aplenty. Or, maybe that was why, in hindsight. Like Tyrage, he was part of the land-based forces, and so interaction had been somewhat scant.

Veruin was, he had realized long ago, doomed to an existence of relative isolation from the rest of the Tenth. The Sixth and Fifth Cohorts were the only ones tied with the Imperial Navy, while the rest acted like a regular, if diminished Legion under direct command of General Tullus.

"Gentlemen." Like summoned from a box, General Tullus appeared from the tent's opening. Every man and woman present snapped off a salute, a chorus of chest-beating in rapid succession. The bearlike man strode in, knowing they would make way for him just as they did. There was no order given for anyone to move, they simply knew to, and the General knew that they did; "At ease."

However, General Tullus was not alone in his entrance. A pair of Legionaries shuffled in, carrying between them a chest of apparently considerable weight. When they put it down before the General, both breathed audible sighs of relief before being dismissed, leaving the officers to themselves once again. Veruin studied his commander's expression, aware that something had changed.

Beyond the sudden departure of the Legion's defector Saint. He wasn't even sure what the rank-and-file had been told, of why she had to leave. He knew the real reason himself, of course, that Meridia was a bitch if ever there was one, and had demanded Mallin dedicated herself to the pledge she'd sworn, rather than the wars of men.

"I've just been in contact with the Imperial City." the General started, those words themselves enough to garner every bit of attention from those present. For a long moment, he left it at that, instead opting to undo the clasps on the chest.

"War Minister Varro relayed the Emperor's new directive, such as it is. Due to recent developments in Tamriel, we are to force a close to the war here, sooner than originally planned. Given that we're already marching as fast as the men can take...it necessitates we take actions I would not normally consider."

"How much sooner, General?" Tyrage asked.

"As of today, we have a month to force Gaspard to the table." Veruin winced, and saw the same reaction in many of the others. A month? The gods would surely be with them if they could even make it to Val Royeaux in that time, given the pace they were setting; "After that, we have to be ready to set sail back to Tamriel."

"What are these recent developments?" Legate Colinare frowned, arms crossed before his chest. A Breton, and shorter than most of his peers, Colinare often seemed to believe he needed to make sure he was noticed, irrespective as to the how's. A subject of amusement was that one such method seemed to have been to match the General's facial hair, though now there was little to find amusing, and Veruin could only agree with the man's sentiment.

"Wlonia, a small hamlet by the Bay, was massacred a week ago. No one was spared, and the heads of the dead were found piled in the village fountain when the Leyawiin guard arrived." Tullus spoke with darkness in his eyes, and Veruin cast a glance at Tyrage, the woman's face now as if carved from stone. She seemed to have lost all color, and the blood itself had drained from her face; "The Elder Council has few suspects, but the Dominion _is_ among them. If this is the Dominion at work, it might mean they're ready for a round two, and I'll be damned if we're missing out of trouncing those Aldmeri fuckwits."

Veruin found it hard to speak, after those words. War with the Dominion was always a matter of when, never _if_ , and he'd known it would likely come as soon as in his lifetime. Still, to hear it might be starting now, when he was so far away from home, left a dread knot in his stomach.

"So, we'll have to speed up our efforts." The General continued; "That means we're unlikely to make it to Val Royeaux with the time to spare to make the biggest bonfire Thedas' ever seen. Instead, we're going to have to rely on Gaspard, their Emperor, being a man of chivalry. If he is, he'll be leading the forces currently being mustered against our invasion. We find him, beat the _snot_ out of him and force him to sign a peace treaty."

"General, we have but two Legion's worth of men." Aristes spoke up now; "Orlais will no doubt be able to field much greater numbers. That aside, I dread pitting our cavalry against theirs, for they are said to have no equals in Thedas."

Ah, yes...there was that as well. Veruin swallowed, wringing his hands behind his back. Imperial cavalry, with the exception of the Knights of High Rock, were mostly intended for crushing infantry or light cavalry. The Dominion almost never made use of cavalry if not to raid and pillage. Spears and swords might not be enough against the lances and warhammers of the Chevaliers. And as the _equites Legatus_ , he was expected to ride at the front of such cavalry encounters, leading by example. _Gods, so this was punishment after all. General Tullus can't execute anyone for what's happened, so he just put me in the most dangerous position in the Legion..._

By Julianos, he should have retired when he had the chance.

"Tulius had but one Legion in Morrowind, Aristes, and yet he won out over the Dunmer forces." There was some comfort in that, though not too much if the rumors were true. General Tullius of the Skyrim Legion had the so-called Dragonborn in his employ. There was little arguing with the kind of power such would add to any army. Tullius was a great strategist, no doubt, but all the same he had a Tongue in his Legion. Tullus did not, and so they would have to make do without the godlike powers of ancient Nords; "There is no doubt that Orlais is aware of our presence here, and that they will muster their forces against us. We're drawing their eyes off the Seventh in Ferelden, so at least take some solace in that we are buying time for Belisarius and his boys to dig in and replenish their losses."

"Still, General..."

"There is a plan, of course." Tullus continued before Aristes could; "You will each ensure the readiness of your sections to face surprise attacks from the front, rear and sides. In order to facilitate this, the Legion will disperse with the standard column and instead march with the artillery and missile troops at the center, with all sides protected by heavy infantry with spears. Every man will be given two caltrops to carry and to throw between himself and the Orlesians, ensuring we can deny them a direct charge. Following that, our own cavalry will maintain their distance until such a time that the Orlesian cavalry is unable to match them in the charge, and strike them hard and fast. Also, new toys..."

General Tullus lifted open the lid of the chest, revealing its contents. Stacked like eggs they were, and made from blackened clay. Veruin was among the few present who immediately recognized the grenades for what they were, being primarily an anti-ship weapon. Pirates weren't so fond of those things, especially as the recipe itself was a closely guarded secret, and wholly non-magical in nature, so wards were for naught.

"Find in each infantry century the ten strongest men, and distribute these in equal number. Each man must be capable of producing the flame to light his grenade, whether it be by magic or torch. Veruin, Aristes, you two no doubt recognize the design of these, but the contents have been altered." Veruin raised a brow, though the General seemed to take little note; "The regular grenades are incendiaries, but these are primarily shrapnel. Black powder and metal shrapnel's a real mean mix, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Soon enough, the Orlesians would certainly find out.

* * *

"That's good news, then."

"For you maybe." The apparition of Gratianus Tullus frowned, arms crossed before him. Belisarius nodded, always taken aback by the bear-like man's sheer size, even in spectral form; "I'm the one who's got to drag ten thousand men down to fight some complete stranger, all in the name of protecting another bunch of complete strangers."

"For you, maybe." There was a smile on the older man's lips as he turned the retort around; "I've come to like the Fereldans, I will admit. They are staunch and stubborn, yet they have a spirit of cheerfulness even in the face of certain defeat. They do not give up, no matter the odds...now, who would that remind me of?"

"Get off with you, you overdone egg." Tullus chuckled; "How's the injuries coming along?"

"Getting better." He sighed, shifting in the cushioned chair. Oh, how he longed for the day he could walk around unaided again. Damn the Divine for chaining him to a chair, or a bed, though he much suspected she'd rather he'd been in the ground; "Healers say it's a solid recovery, though...I'll have to find an eyepatch."

"Could terrify the men." The apparition suggested; "You'd look scary enough as is, what with the cracked skin and burns. I hear women love men with scars, too."

"I think I'd rather the eyepatch, old friend." Belisarius smiled; "The Legion is the only marriage I need, anyway. I visited enough brothels in my youth that the bloodline lives on, and I've siblings with brats of their own."

Tullus snorted at that;

"Fair point, suppose even _you_ 'd once..." The bearded man chuckled, waving off the rest of what he'd have said; "Fun's fun, but a good, fat wife's better, I say."

"Still fat, is she?" Belisarius mused, the wry smile still enough to strain at the new skin. Still, considering it had been charred black like a potato left on the embers, he considered merely being sore a great improvement.

"With any luck, I filled her up before we sailed out." The grin on Tullus' face was inconsistent with a man of his age and station; "And I'll be sorely disappointed if she's not when I come home. Speaking of which..."

He felt the mood change, even with his comrade and colleague being a mere spectre in the room.

"Wlonia?" Belisarius asked. Of course the news had reached him, by War Minister Varro relaying the Emperor's orders by apparition. Though, he imagined there was some difference between the orders he and Tullus had received. Varro had made no room for misunderstanding in his message, that the Seventh was to remain in Ferelden until properly rebuilt and rested, and until Ferelden was in such a state that it could maintain its own sovereignty. Tullus' expression turned sour at the name; "Yes, I've already heard from the War Minister. I'm to remain in Ferelden for the foreseeable future. You?"

"Lucky bastard..." Tullus huffed; "I've got another month, then the war with Orlais' better be over and done with. Fucking Gaspard, he picked a rotten time to go start shit with the Empire."

"Every man has his reasons, Tullus." He reminded him; "Emperors in particular. The Orlesian nobility seems to work quite differently than ours. If anything it's much less centralized. I've a suspicion Gaspard would rather we had peace as well, but something or someone's putting the pressure on him. I can't say who, though."

"I'll leave the intrigues to you then, old friend. Always was more your field than mine, anyway." The younger General shook his head; "Anyway, I'm not just making contact to check up on you, much as it does comfort me to see you're looking less like a burnt egg."

"I imagined."

"If I'm to end this shit right fast enough, I'm going to have to ask a favor of you." There was little joy in Tullus' voice as he spoke, perhaps because he as well remembered last such words had come from him. Or, well, generally just the last time he'd asked a favor; "You're in command of a substantial portion of the Imperial air forces."

"I am." Belisarius felt like he knew where this was going. Tullus was nothing if not predictable, usually; "And I sorely need them."

"You won't, if I can end the war."

" _If_." He pointed out; "If you can win the war. Considering the time frame I've my doubts that you can."

"Oh ye of little faith." Tullus scoffed; "I'm more than just brute force, Cecium. I'll win this war, with the time to spare even to come around Ferelden and meet your new friends."

"Colleagues." Belisarius muttered, though he knew Tullus saw things differently. Once you'd fought for the same soil, on the same side, that made you comrades, and by extension friends. There was a strange simplicity to the man's worldview, that Belisarius in a way envied him. Tullus' world often seemed so much simpler, and easier to grasp; "So, what are you planning?"

The smile dimmed on Tullus' face once more, and he grew serious.

"Orlais knows we have the Aviatorii now, enough rumors will have come around for them to take the threat seriously."

"I'd expect nothing else, no doubt a great deal escaped the enclosure at Gherlen's Pass too." He nodded; "So, what _do_ you intend on doing? I'll not loan you my best forces simply to win a skirmish."

"Gaspard, if he is as the reports detail, will only understand force...well, that and a good deal. My deal will be to _not_ set the Aviatorii loose on Val Royeaux."

Belisarius, for a moment, found himself taken slightly aback at the casualness with which Tullus spoke of threatening to burn one of the greatest cities in Thedas. Still, it was only a threat. Tullus knew how the Emperor - their own Emperor - would view such an action. They had struck Jader with fire, yes, but because it had emptied of civilians and garrisoned instead with the Orlesian army. It was a military target.

Val Royeaux was no garrison city, though its Templars might disagree.

"What if he calls your bluff?"

"What bluff?" Tullus shrugged; "The original plan was to torch the White Spire. If Gaspard acts up, we torch the White Spire. Make it seem like we're going to do the same to the rest of the city, he'll concede to us. He's a general, he'll realize he's beaten."

"Don't underestimate Orlais, Tullus." The older General admonished; "I've done it enough times to know the consequences. If you burn the White Spire, you risk setting their minds on nothing but total war. Do not take the foe lightly."

"I'm not." His younger counterpart shook his head; "I recognize martial prowess when I see it. Orlais I would far rather have as friends than foes, in that I entirely agree with the Emperor. Especially since they gave _you_ such a hard time. Buggers gotta be worth their salt, I figure. Plus, I would love to see their Chevaliers ride through those Aldmeri pansies, if they're as good as you say."

"We can all dream, can't we?" Belisarius sighed, quietly relieved. He would not deny the thought appealed to him. Chevaliers and Legionaries, fight the Dominion side by side. Humans shouldn't wage war on one another when elves wanted them all dead; "I suppose your methods are your own, as long as you get the results."

"Always have been, and I always do." Tullus hummed; "So, will you lend me your flying mages? I promise not to scratch the paint."

"They're not..." he stopped himself, seeing no use in the argument. Tullus was a leader of soldiers and sailors both, after all. That he would compare the Aviatorii to painted warships was just one of his peculiarities, and not a hill Belisarius was going to die on; "You'll need the airships too, if you really want to drive the point in."

"That's what I'm going for." The younger General shrugged; "Hopefully I'll not need it. I'm banking on my superior charm and charisma getting through to Gaspard, and if not those, then I'll beat the crap out of him...if he dismisses the threat to Val Royeaux, of course."

For a moment, Belisarius wasn't quite sure how to respond to such a statement. Tullus was a great many things, but a man of charismatic eloquence was not exactly among those. Gaspard was not likely to take well to the kind of mannerisms the General embodied. Unless Tullus was planning on taking the Orlesian Emperor to the nearest tavern, that was.

Then again, shock had a charisma of its own, he supposed. The gods alone would know, and that line of thought brought his mind onto other things.

"While I've no doubt you'll excel, there is something I wondered, Tullus."

"Yeah?" his counterpart scratched his beard; "And no, I'm _not_ taking Gaspard to a whorehouse."

"I was actually pondering a tavern, but that's besides the point." Though it was funny how close he'd gotten; "Rumors go you have a living saint amongst your forces. The Iron-Armed Saint, I believe they call her. Are those rumors genuine, or just rubbish?"

It was barely noticeable, but Tullus' face did darken at the mention. So, he surmised, there might be something to those rumors then.

"An... internal matter for the Tenth." The grin on his face was not one of mirth, Belisarius recognized. It only made him all the more curious, though once again he was reminded of the Shield's stubbornness; "Sorry old friend, but this one's for the top heads to know, only."

Ah

"If you say so." At least, that meant the Emperor knew, as well as anyone else who required knowledge of the situation. He could find peace in that, then.

"How's reconstruction at Gherlen's Pass going?" Tullus was not subtle about changing the subject, though at least it was a valid one.

"Well enough." He sighed, feeling the onsetting strain of prolonged conversing. He was still not entirely ready yet, not even for friends; "We are rebuilding the fortifications as well as some additions. Mostly forward bastions, trenches, ditches and low palisades."

"Didn't Gaspard send forces north of your fortifications though? What happened to those?"

"He did." It had been a strange and unsettling aftermath, of that effort. They were fortifying the area just east of the marsh now, to ensure no repeat of such manuevres; "Apparently he divided his forces after Kincaster, and sent half of them south to strike the Legion in the back. We realized in time and prepared accordingly."

"The other half then?"

"That's...the stranger thing." He muttered; "Apparently all the Chevaliers were sent south, while Gaspard retained all his battlemages and Templars with the northern force. They encountered resistance somewhere after the River Dane, and were forced on a full retreat."

Left unsaid was the nature of that resistance, at least until he received word back from the Imperial City's archives. They knew of the composition of Gaspard's strike force, because a single survivor had made her way to Legate Constanta's forces. A bloodied, traumatized elven mage had simply come...wandering down the road. The report from Constanta described the woman as trance-like, completely unaware of her surroundings until one of the soldiers had touched her. That had set her off, screaming and wailing like a _like a damn banshee_ , the Legate had described it.

He would know more, once the prisoner arrived at Denerim. In the meantime, there was still left the task of informing his current hosts of the situation. Even if _his_ Legion remained, the departure of the Tenth added some pressure, and they needed to be prepared if his own men were suddenly recalled as well.

" _Somewhere_?" Tullus raised a brow; "You make it sound like your hands weren't in it."

"Sorry old friend, that's for the top heads to know only."

"Cheeky bastard." The General scoffed; "Right then, I'll take my leave. It's about time I got the Tenth moving again. Apparently a messenger from Hossberg arrived in Laysh a week after we'd left, and some sort of scribe's supposed to catch up with us. Damned if I understand why, but it's my mandate to play nice with the locals, so I'll humor them."

"Gods guide you, Tullus."

"And you, Cecium. For the Empire."

Belisarius watched the wall, even after the spectral visage of Tullus had disappeared. The dark brick was a nice contrast to the light sandstone of much of the palace, and helped give his granted office a cooler feel to it. Especially now that summer was approaching. He was not much for the hot weather of Daggerfall's summers, and stuck to the northern regions when duty would allow for it.

"Pullo."

There was no need to even ascertain whether or not the man was nearby. He _always_ was, and Belisarius was starting to suspect that maybe the man was a little _too_ good at his work in Intelligence. Certainly it seemed he was never out of earshot.

True to form, the bald man entered the room, barely making noise as he pushed the door open. The General turned his head to face the officer, but otherwise remained as he was. Pullo snapped off his salute, and remained at attention.

"Ease." Belisarius muttered; "Find the King and Queen, let them know I request their presence at first opportunity."

 _And stop listening in on my damn conversations..._

* * *

Night had fallen over Gherlen's Pass, and with it had come to an end Phillipe de Lydes' first week in the Fereldan army. His first week as a spy.

The soldier in him was filled with admiration for the Fereldan and Imperial forces he was bearing witness to. The Imperials, outlanders from across the seas, worked more like army ants than humans, in near everything they did.

The Orlesian in him felt only mounting apprehension. The Imperials were rebuilding their fortifications and, from the short glimpses he'd managed to catch on the first day of training, were even extending them beyond what seemed to have been there before. Every soldier of the Legion, the actual outlanders, looked like they belonged with the Chevalier corps. Great, muscular men and even women of no weak physique, marching, exercising and drilling in manners that reminded him more of golems than of mortals. Like the soldiers of Orlais, they all seemed to be equipped by a certain standard of uniformity, full plate and mail. How rich was the Empire, he wondered, that it could equip every soldier in its armies with the armor of knights?

The Fereldan army seemed to have supplemented its own officers with those of the Legion. The distinction was easily made, between Fereldans in common platemail next to Imperial officers with wide-crested helmets and command sticks. Stick that weren't just for show, as any recruit who fell behind on the jog came to feel. The Centurions, the Imperial officers, were unlike any he had ever before encountered. They seemed possessing of no mercy whatsoever, and worked the men until some fell where they stood.

There was a method to the madness, of course. His _fellow_ recruits didn't seem to grasp it, but he did well enough to understand the reasoning behind such harshness. The soldiers of the Legion carried themselves with an air of unnatural confidence, that much was clear. It wouldn't surprise him greatly to find such confidence borne from training so fierce and so harsh, that it made combat seem trivial by compare.

"KEEP THE PACE, YOU SLOBS!"

It was almost nostalgic, really. These Centurions might have enjoyed drilling Chevaliers, for the requirements seemed about the same for the unfortunate souls in their leash. Only, here the differences were quite stark between Chevaliers and Men-at-arms, for whom war was the sole occupation, and then these commoners spurred on into service by pride and determination alone. Even so, much as his training might have formed his body into one better than those around him, the weight of both armor and a backpack full of stones, was starting to weigh him down.

The Centurions had divided all the recruits into small units, each around five hundred men, by his estimations. There didn't seem to be a method to how _this_ was done, however. They called these units _cohorts_ , a word he didn't recognize, though it felt to him tied with _cohesion_ , perhaps. Each man in one of these cohorts was identical to those around him in armor, and likely as well in arms.

Each of these cohorts were again divided into _centuries_ , a curious term for formations a hundred men strong. At least this one made sense to him, unlike the cohorts which seemed like odd sizes for an army. They weren't large enough to be a _serious_ threat to any real military, or even to form one coherent battle line, in his estimations. Was it an attempt at mobility whilst maintaining heavy armor? Not a bad idea, though it seemed somewhat archaic to him. They appeared to put next to no true value to the notions of heavy cavalry, an affront to any commander of common sense, but were far more centered around infantry. Each Cohort had its own Centurion, but each _century_ was instead commanded by lower officers again, Quastors and Optio's, though he'd no notion of what either name meant.

It was these Quastors and Optio's who led the recruits on the march when Centurions did not, ensuring fast paces whilst themselves hauling similar weights to their victims. Phillipe found himself amongst the very few not ready to drop to the ground the moment their officer called for a break. They hadn't marched much more than five miles before the first break, though he would be amiss not to savor any interludes in the harsh training. Each recruit carried his own water, an added weight few begrudged now. Marching in the sun had turned the water lukewarm, but it was all the same water, and each droplet was cherished. Around him, men heaved for air and wiped sweat from their brows. Phillipe did the latter, though his breathing was nowhere near as labored as those of his fellow recruits.

He noticed one of the officers watching him, and was quick to lean on his leg as if out of breath as well. A Brewster would have little cause to be as fit as any officer, and he knew it would be noticed if he excelled. Especially, when Illia had put such emphasis on keeping his head down. The best spies were never noticed, he thought.

Keeping in touch with her had been...interesting. In hindsight it was obvious, but at the time they'd never considered how many other married men enlisted here. Their spouses, whether the recruits were male or female, were not allowed in the same parts of the camp at the same time. This included sleeping quarters, where the Fereldan army had apparently rolled over entirely for the Imperials, and instituted quarters for eight men each, _contuberniums_ they called them, though he wasn't yet sure if that referred to the room or if it was the outlander word for a group of eight. All men, of course, the female recruits had their own part of the camp, though smaller as befitted their smaller numbers.

Illia had not enlisted - for such she was too proud, or maybe just stubborn - but was instead among the spouses living beyond the walls of the camp. A small village had sprung up by the camp entrance farthest from the Pass itself, between the camp and the palisade wall that had, apparently, stopped the Chevaliers charging down from the north. Charles had been amongst them, he knew, but had no way of knowing whether his comrade was dead, prisoner or had escaped with the rest once the flying mages turned the world to a fiery hell.

It meant a kind of loneliness, even while sharing a cramped bunking quarter with seven other men. He had, he supposed, grown used to her presence, her smell and the sounds she made in her sleep. The touch of her skin, in particular, he now longed for and missed. Traitorous thoughts swarmed in his mind, dreams and fantasies of tossing aside the rank of Chevalier, even his own titles, to take an elven mage for wife. It could never be, his rationality yanked him back whenever his mind strayed, for though he could not anymore deny his attraction towards her, and the passion with which they had made love lately, for it was so much more to him now than mere company in the night, he also knew duty, and honor, and how things were. He recognized infatuation easily enough, of course, he was not new to the world of passion and the women inhabiting such.

But knowing and feeling were oft quite far apart, as he now once more came to understand. Nothing short of the Chantry itself disintegrating, and the Circles with it, would mean freedom for Illia. When sleep came to him, more than once he had found himself at home in the summer, tending to the grapes whilst Illia came to him in a dress of green silk, child on her hip, with a flask of water for him in the heat. _You'll be some woman a good husband one day._

Dreams, even the sweetest of them, were cruel in what they left behind. Their journey through Ferelden, though short, had been a fantasy he now realized he'd not wanted to end. The bittersweet reality, of where he now was, and the limits and walls set before him. He hoped, against himself, that the feelings would die away once the war was over and Illia returned to the Circle. That his mind would cease its rebellion.

His discomfort was no fault of his fellow recruits, he had to reconcile with this fact, for all as one they seemed decent people, even if they were Fereldans. The old term 'Sleeping with the enemy' had taken on a meaning here he had never quite thought it would.

"Any injuries?" the same Quastor who'd watched him, an olive-skinned man with thin facial hair asked, walking amongst the exhausted recruits. Phillipe, ripped from his thoughts, suspected that had there been injuries, the men would have lacked the breath to complain; "Alright you men, we're halfway home. Get those packs back on and let me see some proper rhythm in those feet of yours!"

He was a soldier of Orlais, a Chevalier. He was loyal to the Emperor before he was loyal to even himself. Such was the code of the Chevaliers, to serve with honor and loyalty, no matter the task.

For the Emperor.

* * *

 **I am weak to sappy romances, and against my better judgement I'm starting to adore Phillipe and Illia. I honestly found it hard to stop writing his thoughts on them.**


	49. Behind closed Doors

**Behind closed Doors**

* * *

The Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux.

A fortress as much as it was a place of worship, and as grand in scale as any true stronghold of even the most powerful lords. Every surface of the outer walls and facades was of marble, so gleamingly white that on sunny days it would sting the eyes to look upon them. A single pillar occupied its grand terrace, a monument of opulent majesty as it reached for the heavens themselves, hewn and carved from a single piece of purest, white granite, its surface decorated with the frescoes and images of a thousand artists and masons, each depicting the grandest of moments of the Chantry's history, with the visage of Holy Andraste herself at the top.

Cassandra had been here before, a great many times. It felt like a lifetime ago when she first set her feet her, but then again she herself was not yet so old that such would be all that terribly long. Just like back then, and always, now once more the place instilled within her a sense of wondrous awe. The power and majesty of the Chantry, and through it, the Maker, displayed for all to see. The bastion of the true faith, of Thedas' very life essence, in sculptured and chiseled form.

As the right hand of Most Holy, she had her wont routines in this place. Beyond the splendor, beyond the majesty, the Grand Cathedral was a stronghold of the Chantry. Beyond the worshippers, it was a garrison as well for those who kept safe the Divine. People would look upon the Cathedral and see both beauty and strength, and would do so rightfully, for it was so.

Beside her walked Duke Bernard, a returned campaigner from the Emperor's invasion of Ferelden. The man was a seasoned veteran, of wars both official and less so. She knew well enough his exploits, as well as his piety. It was hardly in question, and the Duke carried himself as if he was at home within the Chantry, yet reverence shone with his every step. He bore scars, some old enough to be little but red marks, others far more recent in the making.

She refrained from inquiring. Her own experiences with combat, though most often against foes of different nature, was enough that she knew them to hold no precious memories. Instead she maintained her gait and stride, her eyes forward as they entered the Grand Cathedral. The Duke, she noticed, bowed his head when he entered. A pious man, truly, for it seemed he waited for her to make headway before him so as she not notice. Often, visitors or those called by the Divine would do their best to ensure being watched in pious behavior, yet it seemed the opposite for Duke Bernard. Cassandra nodded to herself, her opinion of the Duke improved.

It was still a curious thing, she mulled, that the Divine would send for Duke Bernard, and not the Emperor himself. The Duke, for all his qualities, was unlikely to appreciate it were he to be used as a mere messenger. The Chantry lacked not for birds nor mounted couriers. Around them the Chant of Light echoed, the cavernous halls and corridors casting around the song until it sounded as if the skies themselves had joined in. Cassandra knew it was only people who sang, yet her skin tingled and her heart was aflutter despite herself, for beyond words the song was truly euphoric, praise and plea merged for the Maker's ears, and for those of his children.

Still she maintained her stride, much as she wished to halt and close her eyes to listen. Duke Bernard walked aside her again now, his hat clenched in his hands as his eyes went to the ceiling, so very far above. Truly, the space of the Cathedral was grand indeed, and made one feel as if there was no ceiling at all, but only the Maker's skies above. And still, the curiosity gnawed at her. Why was Duke Bernard summoned? She couldn't ask, not even of the Duke himself, for she doubted he knew. Was it related to the Emperor's failed incursion into Ferelden?

It would not surprise her if so, though it would beg the question why the Duke was summoned, and not Gaspard himself. Cassandra knew as well of the destruction of the Exalted Fleet, though she felt conflicted on the issue. Divine Beatrix had always been...outgoing, more so than most Divines, this was well known. But, to send an Exalted March on Ferelden with such short notice, and to her knowledge no chance for the Fereldan Chantry to make its own defense...it went against her principles, as a faithful.

But as the right hand of the Divine, she knew personal doubt was no longer a luxury. Rather it seemed a curse, for much as it had grown over the last year, she had little in the way of expressing it. Most Holy's actions were above and beyond doubt, as the Maker's anointed, after all. But still she doubted, for it felt to her as injustice when faithful were thrown onto the pyre for the sins of others. Was the blood of innocents worth Ferelden's soul? And what if Ferelden had not at all succumbed to heresy, but merely allowed the presence of heretics?

Heretics who had, by all accounts, lent their aid to Ferelden when Orlais withdrew its own. As her position demanded and allowed, access was her granted to every report on the Chantry's enemies, which now included these outlanders. It was hard to tell truly from whence they came, for their ships had made landfall both in the western Anderfels as well as in Ferelden. Had they sailed around the world in two directions? Was their Empire so grand truly, that they could afford such expeditions? And why were they here? Their soldiers seemed capable, more so than their counterparts of the Orlesian forces, yet they had spent more time rebuilding Denerim than fighting. And then, when the fighting did commence, even those of the Seekers who had joined in the Exalted March had found themselves outmatched. Enchanted blades of the Seeker Order now were held by the Outlander who had bested them in combat, and the skies themselves had yielded to their mages.

She wanted to understand, desperately, but knew such curiosity to be a path laden with danger.

"Duke Bernard?" the guards by the inner sanctum barely moved, though both locked eyes on the newcomer. They wore the Templar plate, yet it was easily distinguished from those of their Order who served in the White Spire. Far more ornate and gleaming, it was ceremonial as much as it was practical, and the spells and wards upon them shone with such radiance that the men themselves seemed near holy; "Her Holiness is ready to receive you for a private audience."

Cassandra paused, halting in the middle of a step. A private audience? She was surprised, and it seemed such was the case for Duke Bernard as well. The man hesitated, looking to her and then to the guards. The doors before them swung open, and only then did it seem the lord found his courage to go forth. Within, for the short glimpse she was granted, Cassandra could see that Most Holy was alone in the room, devoid of the usual scribes. What kind of meeting was the Duke called to, and why was even she barred from participation?

It was not long at all before the doors opened once more. Duke Bernard emerged, his gait changed as was the expression upon his face. No longer serene, now instead it appeared he was set a goal, perhaps by the Divine herself.

* * *

Two weeks now.

That was how long he had been a soldier of the Fereldan army. Two weeks of sweating it out alongside hundreds of his enemies, commoners and freeholders, peasants and burghers. Two weeks was too long if he'd wanted to never know their names, to never befriend the people he shared the cramped bunk-room with. They were people, not merely a faceless foe. Each was a brother, husband, a father or a son. Their families, those who had lost it all in either the Blight or the Chantry putting their coastal hamlets to the torch, lived in the hovels beyond the camp gates. It was impossible to miss the gaggles of children, running around outside the walls, screaming and giggling. The swarms of Halflings followed them whenever the Centurions sent them on march, calling out to their fathers and older brothers.

He would be lying if he said he did not, in some way, envy those men. They had lost most of all they owned, yet they were still in their own way richer than he. Their loved ones were with them, cheering them on in defense of their country. He hadn't seen his own family since the Chevaliers took him in as one of them.

The man in the bunk above him, Konrad, was from Silverton, a small mining hamlet in the southern Bannorns. As the name implied, it was mostly silver. Konrad had worked a stamping mill when the Darkspawn came up, forcing himself and his family on the run. Now he was here, as was what remained of his family.

The others; John, Radzig, Tom, Samwell, Randyll and Mathias, they were all of similar origins, some less fortunate than others. All of them were good men, honest men. Randyll was a sour, quiet thing, though Phillipe couldn't fault him. The man had lost his entire family when the Chantry razed his fishing village to the ground. John and Radzig were both of Denerim, former members of the militia that had held the streets against the Darkspawn once the gates broke. Tom was a hand at a stud farm near Amaranthine, Samwell had been a scribe in the Chantry of a southern town called Lothering, and Mathias had grown apples outside Portsmouth.

"You're growing to like them." Illia noted. She was working the winch of the newly dug well outside the military camp when he found her, in one of the short periods of spare time he was afforded. Men snuck off to the outside all the time, most to see their families, or eat something other than bread, porridge and hard cheese.

In the late afternoon sun, it would be hard for anyone to imagine her a mage, doing such menial work, though it was clear she wasn't yet entirely used to the harder tasks. Phillipe sighed, relieving her on the winch;

"I respect them." He corrected her, careful with the words he chose in open air. Illia was too, her accent altered to that of a Fereldan; "They're good men. Hard-working men. Some have lost it all. Others managed to save their families. They're still pushing on."

"I know." She didn't admonish him, though he couldn't quite tell whether that was because she didn't truly disapprove, or simply that they were within earshot of many; "How long before you have to be back?"

"We're through with the drills for today." He lifted the filled bucket over the edge of the well, managing almost not to spill; "...though my group has patrol duty tonight."

He'd almost expected that he too would be tasked with building fortifications, but instead such tasks fell to the Legionaries and the Immunes, the latter a strange class of soldier exempt from most tasks others were put on, in favor of working specialized projects. The Immunes were also the ones who'd dug the well and helped the families of the soldiers set up hovels outside the walls.

"Come on, then." She beckoned, already walking by the time he'd recognized the hither. True to the emerging form of the Legion, Illia's hovel was a match of those around it. Raised by magic, the walls were earthen walls hardened into something close to stone, and a roof made from wooden planks. It was so far beneath what he was used to that it didn't even warrant comparison...; "I'll make some tea."

But it wasn't so bad.

Truthfully, and in spite of himself, Phillipe found he actually enjoyed a great many aspects of this posting. While, indeed, there was the ever-present strain on his emotional stability that they risked discovery, working as a spy in the Fereldan army presented him with ideas and perspectives he'd never before considered. There was a strange otherworldness to it.

"I imagine it's somewhat below your usual standards." Illia hummed, maybe having read his mind. Truthfully it wouldn't take him by surprise if she did, considering how ill-advised he was on the workings of magic. He knew what the Chantry taught, and then what Illia had deigned to explain. Beyond those borders, though, he was as ignorant as a child.

"We've slept under the open skies." He reminded her, though with those words came as well the reminder to himself of whatever else they had done underneath the open night's skies. Illia knelt before a small fireplace in the wall, preparing firewood already stacked within, likely unaware that Phillipe's eyes briefly wandered to her bed. If not for his duties later tonight...

He turned them back to her, once more taken in by how little she looked the part of a knight-enchanter. Had he known nothing else, he could have taken her for a peasant woman; "At least this has a roof. And it's not so cramped compared to the quarters we sleep in at the barracks. I'd honestly take the open skies over the barracks."

"You make it sound horrible." Illia's giggle was a heartwarming one, spreading with ease throughout him, and forced a smile on his face, even if she didn't see it; "It's surely no worse than this?"

"Eight men in less space than this, Illia..." she grew still as the implications dawned upon her, her hands freezing around the handle of the now boiling pot of water; "There is no window. I have worked in _stables_ less repugnant."

She laughed again, visibly trying to hold it in. Compared to the conditions he slept under, her little hovel might as well have been his family estate. If nothing else it was far more airy than the barracks, and it felt... _comfortable_ , if he had to find a word for it. Other than for Illia's presence he was hard-pressed to put a finger onto the cause.

"Maker's _Breath_."

"I'd rather it was." he chuckled, despite himself. Her delightedness was as infectious as she was herself delightful; "At least I'd wake up to something that didn't smell like manure...or, _someone_."

"You're a right charmer, aren't you?" Illia swatted him on the shoulder. It was an action that he knew amongst the majority of his Order would bring retribution, for an elf to strike at a Chevalier. Was he so different from them? "I still think you say that to all the girls."

"I'd like to think my preferences were known." He mused, only half-joking. For a short time, silence reigned between them as Illia resumed preparing the tea, whilst he himself was left pondering his own words; "...did...did that come out sounding off?"

" _The Chevalier asked of the elven mage._ " She muttered, voice lower than before; "A strange day, that such would come to pass." The smile on her face was small, yet warm as she handed him the steaming cup; "But, all the same... I appreciate it."

Phillipe grasped the ceramic cup, hiding his eyes in the steam. Her words, soft and quiet, once again made him strangely _dread_ when this was would come to an end. Again, he forced himself to understand that it was naught but an infatuation, that he was ruled more so by lust than love. Yet, at the same time, would lust compell him to wish for such things as his dreams showed? The mind was a vile temptress, and in the comfort and seclusion of the hut that was hers, he was caught in its seductive claws.

Merely being in her presence, in such privacy, his mind would rebel against rationality. It was the urge to seize her, to embrace and make love to her. It was an urge he resisted, knowing when and where such would be appropriate. Much as Chevaliers had their flaws, at least the importance of chivalry had been beaten into them all. Manners aside, she _was_ his superior in this task, by the Emperor's own decree no less. All the same, she was an intoxicating presence, one he'd thought would lessen as they grew acustomed to one another.

It had not.

* * *

The elven woman in the chair before him, chained at the wrists and ankles with cold-forged iron, was a rather pitiful sight. Her robes, once no doubt well kept and pristine, folded and clean, were now instead caked with dried blood and the filth of the wilderness, her hair equally so undone and a mess.

He couldn't tell whether she was attempting discrete spells to free herself, though it wouldn't matter in the end. The Denerim's Chantry, what remained of it after the Blight, had granted him in loan the cold-forged iron shackles used to hold runaway mages, each link inlaid with enchantments to strengthen bonds and sap the will of its captive. Belisarius could almost admire such caution, if only because he had come to understand the dangers of underestimating the Chantry and its adherents.

His pity for the woman's situation was somewhat offset by the injuries he personally had suffered at the hand of her no-doubt beloved Chantry. Broken and burnt as he was, he was at least capable of staggering into the small room himself, if aided by cane and nearby Evocatii bodyguards.

They would catch him, if he fell. Had a few times before already.

"Name?"

Whilst he was present, it was Centurion Pullo who did the interrogating. Belisarius doubted he could have maintained a mask of stoicism if his muscles started cramping up after the first ten words. So instead he reclined in the chair brought for him, partially concealed in the shadows as the bald man did his work. The prisoner didn't so much ignore Pullo as she simply seemed not to have noticed him. Her eyes were distant, a sight the General recognized well enough from his own soldiers. Especially the veterans of the Great War.

Pullo rapped his knuckles against the wooden table. The sudden sound made the woman jerk away, harder and faster than what could be comfortable with shackles. Her eyes grew wide and fearful for a moment, running around the room until they settled on the hand still lingering on the table. Then they grew dull once more.

"Name?"

She seemed to have no visible wounds, and he doubted Constanta would have allowed her transport without proper medical care. What injuries she yet had would be those no ordinary healer could mend. He sighed, shifting in his chair so as to put less weight on the healing wounds. His one eye kept a track of both of them, even as he pondered the cause of it all. Was this woman's sudden appearance an escaped witness to some great massacre? Mages of Orlais were tethered, if he recalled it right, and would never be without Templar escort. Was she an apostate, maybe? A mage on the run from Orlais into the more liberal Ferelden?

"Name?" there was no change to Pullo's voice as he repeated the question, and no immediate change to the woman's reaction as the word simply fell on slanted, if deaf ears. She didn't seem that old, he mused, not old enough to be one of the higher ranking mages in Orlais, at least. Then again, maybe elves in Thedas did age differently. She might be twice his age, on half it; "Your name?"

"...F- _Fiona_."

Belisarius perked up when the hoarse voice finally joined in, almost surprised that she'd deigned to speak at all. Her eyes, he noticed, were still as dull as before and devoid of life, but her hands now wrung within the shackles, as if only part of her had returned to the conscious world. Pullo too, for a moment, waited and watched, to see maybe if she would say more unprompted. He smiled, then, the kind of smile Belisarius had yet to understand.

Was it earnest or a mask?

"Hello, Fiona." Pullo said; "I am Pullo. I'm here to help you, and I was hoping in turn you might help me."

* * *

As Orlais flattened out around them, Tullus had the Legion spread out.

Rather than marching in the traditional column, the Legion now marched prepared for battle. The men were on guard, the officers aware and the soldiers armed and ready. Pondering the foe had made Tullus order a great deal of the men rearm themselves with pikes and halberds, a decision he in hindsight wondered why he'd not made from the very first day. The foe would come at them with cavalry, and heavy cavalry at that. Swords were of no use against such a foe.

The First and Second Cohort, doubled in numbers so that in practicality they were four, marched at the front. Half the men bore swords and shields, the other a mix of polearms well enough suited against cavalry that he could take some comfort in their numbers. Each man wielded one weapon as well as any other, a testament to the versatility of the Legion. Three more cohorts guarded each flank, and the last two kept the rear. Battlemages, gunners and archers marched in their protection, as did the mules hauling cannons and mortars. Screening the flanks were the mounted forces, the left and right flanks guarded by Kratorius and Aristes respectively. Both men he knew were loathe to engage the Chevaliers in open combat, given the disparity of their armor and arms. Even having distributed infantry warhammers amongst them, he understood their unease.

Chevaliers were by far the greater threat. The Orlesian infantry could be countered and held, but the stories he'd heard about the Chevaliers made the Senche-Raht seem mild. He was no more keen on weathering their storm than any of his legates were, but had at least done all he could to prepare for them. Halberds, handcannons, caltrops and pikes, what more could a man do against such mounted forces of nature? Tullus shifted in his saddle, surveying the lands before him. Flat, devoid of forests and with low, smooth hills as the greatest interruption of the placid landscape. _Ideal cavalry country..._

"General." He turned when the sound of hooves preceded the arrival of Legate Aristes; "The Chantry scribe has caught up with us. Legate Kratorius has requested the Sixth Cohort be in charge of her. They seem to be familiar."

"Granted." He nodded with no hesitation. It was no surprise if the scribe sent them was the same from Laysh, really. It would make sense to send one familiar with the Legion, and he could only really think of one; "They're rear-guard anyway. It'll work fine. Anything from the outriders?"

"We've come past a few hamlets." Aristes reported; "They've all been abandoned."

"It was never much of a secret army anyway." Tullus muttered. There was no getting worked up over such now. Orlais knew they were coming, and had apparently known long enough for their peasantry to get word as well; "This just confirms it. We'll be meeting Gaspard before we're halfway to Val Royeaux, I'm sure of it."

"Yes, General."

"Make sure your horses are watered well. I've a suspicion they'll be running ragged soon enough." Tullus said, turning his eyes back to the landscape again. The Highway stretched on until the eye no longer caught it, as flat and unchanging as the calmest sea. It was great cavalry terrain, yes, but also great for artillery. Hopefully, the advantages of the terrain would give Gaspard great enough confidence that he would simply charge, or attempt a pincer with infantry at the front, and cavalry striking the flanks; "Was there anything else?"

"No, General."

"Very well, you're dismissed."

Tullus didn't turn to watch the departing Legate. His eyes remained on the flatlands, trying to pierce Nirn's crest that he might actually spot the damn Orlesians marching his way. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't apprehensive, but at the same time there was still the chance to end the war right then and there, with a single battle. It _had_ to be in a single battle, for where Orlais could no-doubt dredge or levy up another force of many times a Legion's numbers, he had only the worth of two. Ten thousand Legionaries, a regular cohort's worth of dedicated archers, half again that in men bearing handcannons, near to five hundred mounted troops and just six cannons. The abundance of battlemages would count for little if the Chevaliers rode them down. He could win _a_ battle with such numbers, but beyond that he worried. Victory _was_ attainable, but it required brains as much as brawns.

That was where the Aviatorii entered the pictire, though it all banked on them, Belisarius' fantastic fliers, arriving on time.

Shock and awe would be the name of the game, one he intended to win by a landslide. It also banked on him knowing where exactly the enemy was, and outriders alone wouldn't do the trick. Tullus dug into the pouches strapped to his saddle, and drew out a small, cubic gemstone. Its clear, pinkish gleam gave the fluorite away for what it was, and the engravings on the hard, crystalline surface revealed its function to those who, like him, had studied the arcane.

He blew hot breath onto the inert carvings, then waited and watched as the runes started to glow. Each was carved by hand, work that would sometimes take him weeks to finish for even a single side. It was painstaking and arduous, and he knew each would last no more than a single use. And he had precious few of these stones, expensive indeed as they were for even a General's salary. _And because the Shadow Legion hoards them like the crazed hoard cabbage..._

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed fluorite cube into the air.

Rather than obeying the laws of nature and fall to the ground, it remained floating midair. Tullus was immediately aware, on a subconscious level that words could not detail, that he was now watching himself from up high, from the runes and glyphs of the gemstone. _Now, Gaspard...let's see how far we've yet to go._

A nod, and the stone whisked away, shooting through the air like a bird in flight. It was not long before he could no longer make it out against the grey skies, and only the dim awareness in the back of his mind tied him with the spellweaved stone. Once he had a gauge on Gaspard's progress, he could plot out the best place to meet his forces, dig trenches and wait for Orlais to come to him. A faint smile came to him then, at the prospects of a meeting on his own terms. He had brought a surprise for the Orlesian Emperor, all the way from home, and the prospects of sharing it with his foe widened his smile into a grin.

"I wonder if Gaspard will like my gift..."


	50. Instigators of Magic and Might

_"I make peace with the enemies of the Emperor. If not the peace of a treaty, then the peace of the grave."_

\- General Tullus, Tenth Legion, 4E:202

* * *

 **Instigators of Magic and Might**

* * *

"Who's arrived, you said?"

Belisarius watched the messenger, a Fereldan youth hardly old enough to hold a spear, wince at the tone. In all fairness, he was perhaps a bit harsh, or maybe it was simply his appearance scaring the boy. Burnt skin and scars tended to have such an effect, he realized. Even with the leather patch over the hollow socket, he still looked a right fright.

"T-the First Enchanter of Kinloch Circle, Ser." The boy stammered. Belisarius nodded, biting down a curse. He'd barely had that Fereldan mage in his custody for a week before the Circle sent someone. Or rather, before the Circle went and investigated itself, seeing as there was no one higher in the hierarchy, far as he knew. The then First Enchanter had accompanied the Aulus girl during the Blight, even if only briefly. No doubt she had a keen interest in whatever the Empire was doing to her _fellows_ , whether those were the enemies of the nation or not; "She's here'in the Palace already, Ser."

"...of course she is." At least she couldn't know about the prisoner. He'd made damn sure only vetted men knew of her; "Anything else?"

"She requests a meeting, Ser." The boy seemed as if he feared being struck down for uttering those fateful, damning words. Belisarius, however, managed to maintained as much of a pleasant mask as one could with a ruined face such as his.

"Delightful..." he did his best not to drawl, the scathing sarcasm alone evident enough; "Inform her that, much as I would love to converse with her, I am otherwise occupied...Damn it, why can't people go to the Palace to see their damned monarchs? Aren't they supposed to be up in arms that the Queen's with child?"

It _had_ been somewhat of a surprise, in hindsight, especially that they'd deigned to inform him in person, as if he were some personal friend. It was humbling, of course, but had left him feeling awkward. The boy's eyes widened, enough that he understood. So, it wasn't actually official yet?

"H-her Majesty's with-"

"No, forget I said anything. Wishful thinking. Just meant she ought be, isn't that what marriage brings along?" his tone was sharp, and the boy was silenced; "Just go, tell the First Enchanter I'm not available."

"She- she did say it was rather important, Ser."

" _This fucking country_..." the General muttered, mostly to himself. Half the people here didn't trust him as far as they could toss him, and the other half seemed to rely on him to do run the bloody country. Much as he had come to _like_ Ferelden, it didn't mean he wasn't growing damnably homesick too; "...how important? Someone died?"

"Don't know, Ser. Just...seemed to be she was in a hurry."

There were days he envied the poor fucking infantry, there really were. At least they never had to deal with the self-entitlement that was the nobility and clergy of wherever they were stationed. He'd had to personally deal with kings and dukes in High Rock, as well as representatives and emissaries from other provinces demanding the presence of his men, when their provinces weren't even his damn jurisdiction. Not even in the confines of his personal chambers was he safe from the Chantry, it seemed. _I'll end up a paranoid sod, like that Tulius..._

"...Fine." he relented; "Tell her I'll meet her. _Here_. I'm not about to go wandering about the Palace for someone perfectly capable of walking on her own."

It had been months now, and even the Legion's own healers hadn't been able to right the damages done to him. There were injuries not even magic could heal, at least not the sort available to officers. Thedas _did_ have blood mages, though, different than the sort found back home. _Apostates and maniacs, though, if the Circle's to be trusted..._

He allowed himself some comfort, settling into the leather-bound chair he'd grown so fond of. It managed to distribute his weight so easily that he barely felt the sprain on his scalded skin or the torn muscles. Was this what it felt like, getting old? He wasn't even in his fifties yet, damn it all. Tulius was older, and he was still leading cavalry charges like a madman, Arkay's sake.

Then again, that old badger was something of a traditionalist. He carried himself like it was still the Septim dynasty's days, and not those of the Mede's. Generals just weren't supposed to spearhead charges like that, it wasn't a sound thing to do. Then again, if neither Skyrim nor Morrowind could kill him, maybe some Aedra was keeping a hand over him.

A soft knock on the door made him pause the contemplating, and instead turn his eye to the source.

"Enter."

He hadn't met the First Enchanter before, which wasn't exactly surprising given she'd not left the tower before while he'd been in Ferelden. Still, the elderly woman entering was _exactly_ as he'd imagined her to be, with all the poise and dignity of an old mage with bureaucratic authority. She'd probably have done well for herself in High Rock, all things considered.

"General Belisarius." She at least bowed her head, a deference he hadn't quite expected, though it was appreciated; "We meet at last."

"First Enchanter Wynne." He knew of her, of course. Pullo _was_ good at his job, after all, though he'd never expected second-hand knowledge on the head of the Fereldan Circle to become relevant. He gestured for one of the other chairs in the room, notably less cushioned than his own; "You'll forgive me that I do not rise, I hope."

"Of course." Wynne nodded, taking the cue to sit; "I am just glad it seems I did not interrupt anything."

"Quite." He was tense, he knew it. He'd been wary of Chantry affiliates ever since the explosion, and for a damn good reason, he would argue. Fool him once, shame on thee, fool him twice...well, shame on himself, if he lived through it; "You've come quite the way, First Enchanter. How may I be of assistance?"

"To tell the truth, I came here hoping to find Warden Talia." Well, at least she was honest about it, then. Was he supposed to take offense, that he was not the person she'd hoped to find but rather a second-rate choice? "I had heard she would be here."

"It was my understanding she returned to Highever, after the situation in Amaranthine." And in all honesty, he was glad she had. It saved him having to even contemplate whether or not to inform the Bankorai princess that he'd dispatched reinforcements for her, only for them to be late and useless. Miffing Imperial nobility, especially the nobility of his designated province, was _never_ a good idea; "Might I be of help then, or is this a social visit?"

He couldn't quite read the smile she gave him.

"You might, General." She then paused, as if to admire the furniture; "An apprentice of mine accompanied Warden Talia in Amaranthine. I trust you're informed as to what exactly happened?"

"I've got the outline. Darkspawn Broodmother gone sentient, the Wardens killed it and went home." It was the report he'd gotten from the Centurion stationed at Soldier's Peak, who had in turn interviewed Warden Talia himself. Though, at least this line of questioning indicated Wynne knew nothing of the prisoner; "Your apprentice would be the elven Circle mage, I presume?"

"Cíada, yes." Wynne nodded, though something in her expression had changed when he'd spoken; "For all her life, she has been magically stunted. Elemental magic was never something she could muster, to _any_ degree."

"She's the entropy mage, then?" the Amaranthine reports hadn't mentioned it, but the reports from the siege of Denerim had, in particular the retreat through the Alienage. Wynne nodded, though the second's hesitation betrayed her surprise that he knew. In honesty he'd not known she couldn't do elemental spells; "What of her?"

"She returned from Amaranthine with a curious gift. A potion of your homeland, I believe." She drew a small, slender vial from within her robes, handing it forward. Belisarius took it, careful not to press hard on the glass. It wasn't the usual kind of flask he would see at home. It looked like Fereldan glass, given the thickness. Potion vials in the Empire tended to have thinner glass, yet still be rather sturdy; "A blue liquid, like lyrium but meant for your mages."

"A magicka potion." The smell still lingered, the curious scent of warped air. He recognized it easily enough. It wasn't a smell you forgot, and it had lingered around him in the hospital; "Yes. Our mages use them, like yours do lyrium potions. Differing in that the raw materials for ours are very rarely toxic, and can be found most places above ground. It is empty though."

"It is." Wynne confirmed; "Cíada drank it in front of me. Then she detonated a fireball close enough that it blew her down a corridor."

Belisarius didn't immediately process the significance of her words. It was a while before the importance started dawning upon him, and he could tell from her expression that his own betrayed him.

"You said she was incapable of elemental magic."

"She is." Wynne nodded again; "Once the effects wore off, so did her newfound ability."

"...interesting." he scratched at his chin. _I need a shave_ ; "I presume this is why you wished to find Lady Aulus?"

"She seemed the best choice, much as I am aware of her...dislike, for the Circle."

Wynne's expression became a frown. It wasn't many moments for him to discern the cause, either. The murder of that Nord companion of hers. Justice was needed, but harder still to serve when it both sides had acted in good faith. The Emperor was loathe to in any way displease the Fereldans, for reasons the General wasn't privy to. Arresting the former First Enchanter would have been an option, though it ceased to be one when he died from his injuries after the Blight. Barring that, there was the Knight-Commander, but it was hard to discern his role in the murder. Harder still, when no investigation was allowed.

"It is not my place to question the likes and dislikes of nobility."

"All the same you agree with her, I think." She said; "I cannot blame you, nor her. Irving worked from the assumption that they were runaway Circle mages. Greagoir agreed in principle. Talia came through well enough, cementing Irving's belief that..."

"You don't wish to continue this topic, First Enchanter." He kept his voice quiet as he spoke, though he made sure she understood his standpoint. Murder of Imperial citizens by non-citizens was a grievous crime indeed, made none the better for the killer's self-assured innocence. 'Pax Imperii', it _meant_ something to those to whom it applied; "Ask of me what you would have her."

The First Enchanter, perhaps to her credit, seemed not to take offense.

"This potion presents more questions by far than it does answers, and I am unwont to being so in the dark as it leaves me. I have spent my life in the Circle, surrounded by scholars and tomes on magic older than the Chantry itself. I have never come across such a phenomenon." She leaned forward, whilst he remained unmoving; "How is it that our mages draw upon differing sources of power, yet when Cíada drank I sensed no tendrils of the Fade in her spell? How does your magic _work_?"

Should he answer that? If the First Enchanter of the Fereldan Circle didn't understand how Tamriel's magic worked, would that be beneficial to the Empire, or a detriment? The Emperor had given him no orders regarding what information he could share on the workings of magic, maybe because it was such a shallow understanding he possessed. He knew only what all non-mages knew, the basics and the theory. He knew nothing of how the potions worked once inside the body, only that they did. He understood well enough the applications of health potions and poultices, the miracles they could work on the dying soldier, and the incredible feats borne from stamina potions. But, his understanding of magic in itself was unimpressive. Tullus, for all his brawn and bluster and love of the direct and violent approach, _was_ actually a mage.

He was the better suited for such questions. Though, just as much, he knew his counterpart across the continent would be displeased to be interrupted for the sake of the First Enchanter's curiosity. This was either entirely on himself, or it would have to be delegated elsewhere.

Then there was the question, if _he_ wanted to. By all rights, the Circle should be under investigation until _someone_ could be clasped in irons for the murder of Princess Aulus' companion. That it was not was purely out of the Emperor's graces and desire for good relations. But it also left him the option of telling the First Enchanter to shove it.

On the other hand, the Emperor viewed with favor those who acted on own initiative and made friends for the Empire. Much as he disliked the Circle's protected status within the Fereldan society, it was also a powerful institution, and a potential source of auxiliary battlemages in the future.

It was loyalty against personal disgruntlement, and he knew already which had to win.

"Pullo." His voice was raised, and Wynne leaned back, surprised at the response. She wasn't surprised for long, however, when the bald head appeared in the door, calm and innocent as if he was not eavesdropping on every sentient being within the Palace; "Have some servants bring of refreshments, this might take a while."

* * *

It hadn't been entirely easy, getting her hands on the visitor list.

That in itself should have been her first clue that something, something somewhere in the hierarchy, was wrong. Cassandra knew her task was not to act as the spymaster of the Chantry, but with her counterpart nowhere to be found, as well as her loyalties unknown, this was a task undertaken best in person. Secrecy was best kept, after all, if only you yourself knew of it.

Most Holy had been seeing a lot of private visitors. That was her first thought, upon having slipped the document from the inner sanctum. The ledgers were kept to perfection, no matter whom the visitor, and no matter whom the inviter. Even the power of the Divine paled compared to Chantry bureaucracy, a beast more powerful in nature than perhaps the Maker himself. A bookkeeping force of nature, it was a machine that rolled on and on, irrespective of who sat the Sunburst throne.

She found a quiet place in the gardens, secluded and in the shadows of a great willow. Its branches drooped down, like a curtain secluding her from the rest of the Cathedral gardens. Clerks wandered about, all lost in thoughts of piety no doubt, or simple self-absorption. A vice that claimed many, no matter their holiness or purity. She was a soldier, however. A Seeker. Such pining was beneath her.

Duke Bernard was the latest entry on the list, once she found the right date. There was nothing but his name, and no mention of whatever task he seemed to have been given by Most Holy. There was only the rough time of his entry as well as that of his departure. It was no surprise, given that she had noticed the lack of scribes within the inner sanctum at the time of his audience. Just the time, and his name.

It was the same for the others, she realized. Some she recalled having escorted to the Divine's sanctum, yet others were to her entirely unknown. Turning the pages, she found each name she had escorted, a variety of clerks and officials, the occasional noble. But interspersed amongst them, in far greater numbers than suited her, the names of minor nobility were marked with the same indifference as Duke Bernard had been. The dates were at first hard to place, though slowly it dawned upon her why she had seen and heard nothing of these other visitors. Each time, Most Holy herself had sent her on missions around Orlais, or even outside its borders. Twice in the Free Marches, thrice back home in Nevarra.

The further back she went, it seemed more and more the audiences she knew nothing of had entertained nobles. Orlesian politics were beyond her, as was right for the position she served. Politics were irrelevant until someone decided to try their luck at the Divine's safety. By then the Left Hand would already have gathered information on the assailants, and it was her own meager task of bringing them to justice before the plot could spring. But now, with Duke Bernard's audience, her curiosity had grown out of hand, no longer hers to control. Once was a simple deviation, twice a cause for raised brows, but...fifty-eight Orlesian nobles, and just two Fereldan ones, in the span of the last two years. She'd known of none of them. The two Fereldan names struck her as odd, that such would have been invited to Val Royeaux without her knowing. _Arl Ceorlic, 9:29 Dragon, Eighth of Molioris. Arl Howe, 9:29 Dragon, Fifth of Parvulis_...

What had been the purpose of those audiences? Arl Ceorlic was the man who'd been the staunchest supporter of the Fereldan General Loghain, according to the reports of the Left Hand. There had been some commotion when news reached Val Royeaux that the General had been subdued by a demon. There was the politics of the Cathedral, and the Divine, being Orlesian, and then there was the reality of the dangers it posed when a demon could masquerade as the regent in a land as devout as Ferelden. There was nothing on Ceorlic after the unmasking of the demon. Her counterpart had been present there, during the unraveling. She claimed the man had simply vanished.

Howe, then? Beyond what history taught of the Fereldan rebellion, she knew very little of that particular House. Tarleton Howe had sided with Orlais during the occupation, whilst his son and younger brother ended up siding with the rebels. From what she understood, the young Howe, Rendon, had eventually betrayed another noble house in Ferelden. The details were hard to discern, though it remained certain that the Arl was a criminal and traitor. What then, was the purpose of his audience? It was before the Blight, and before he betrayed his countrymen. What had the Divine wanted with him? Ceorlic had supposed a man who turned out to be a demon, and Howe had butchered his countrymen during the Blight. Both had been summoned by Most Holy _prior_ to that. Summons that she, by all rights as the Right Hand, should have been privy to. Audiences that should have been recorded for posterity, but had not been.

A knot of suspicion began its growth in her guts. She wanted to throw it away, to dismiss the conspiratorial notions brewing within her mind. What of the other nobles, then? She recognized only very few names, most of them because of their support for Celene. Emperor Gaspard's sister was in the book as well, Duchess Florianne de Chalons, all the way back in 9:23. She hadn't been in her position long, back then, it might just be coincidences...All the same, the suspicions wouldn't leave her.

Most Holy was covering up audiences with members of the nobility, both Orlesian and not. The Fereldan nobles had turned traitor on their own countrymen shortly after. And those names she recognized were Celene supporters who had deserted her, shortly before the ambush at Halamshiral. Many now served under Gaspard instead. An attempt maybe to prevent the slaughter at Halamshiral? The elves had been Andrastian, after all. Even with the mistreatment of elves in Orlais, faith was supposed to go above and beyond race and rank.

Duke Bernard...he was the latest audience, after the failed invasion of Ferelden. A failure many in Orlais blamed him for in person. It was no great secret that Gaspard was attempting a more humane approach than his predecessors, in particular when it came to the treatment of the Fereldan people. It also meant his forces moved slower, and that Most Holy had lost her patience with his progress. The Exalted Fleet had been the result of that, and its defeat at Highever was thrown upon the Emperor as well, for his inability or lack of will, whichever it was, to defeat Ferelden's armies before they could have presented any kind of resistance to the fleet. Nobles and Chantry both, now baying for the Emperor's blood.

Cassandra frowned, rubbing her face as she shut the book. A pattern was emerging, one she cared not at all for. The expression on the Duke's face was still fresh in her memory. A man set in his task, a single path before him. What that task could be, she didn't yet know, and knew that to ask now, with all that she had begun to suspect, would be dangerous. Especially as it implied her own lack of faith in the Divine's actions.

But, she knew where he was going. To rejoin the Emperor's host on its way to counter the northern invasion. The Cathedral had vast numbers of messenger birds, pigeons, crows and ravens. Each trained by specialist mages to understand and track its intended destination.

She could send a letter.

The notion was foolish, and not at all what she was _supposed_ to be doing. Orlesian politics _were_ beyond her, she knew this. Her position did not bid her get involved. But, at the same time, her conscious disagreed. Even if it was nothing, even if she was chasing shadows and seeing spider webs where none were...it was better, she argued with herself, with her sense of duty to the Chantry before all, to be safe, rather than sorry.

What to write, though?

She leaned her head back against the tree, eyes closed. The warm sunlight filtering through the curtain of green bathed her skin. What authority did she have to draw on, even in her position as the right hand of the Divine, to make requests or demands of the Orlesian Emperor? If whatever she wrote was incriminating, there was just as great a risk that she herself would become suspect...unless the message arrived too late, when...when whatever might be in the planning had already occurred. Then she would have helped no one, and incriminated herself instead.

Things were easier when she was just a Seeker.

Things _would_ be easier if she could have just focused on her job. The curiosity of youth still sat in her, and Byron would have no doubt lectured her in length on the follies of her plan. Then, it wasn't entirely unlikely he would come up with another one, better than her own. But, ultimately, she felt her old mentor would have agreed. _If not you, who? If not now, when?_

She had a message to send.

* * *

The hillsides of Churneau.

Stranger places had played hosts to battles, and greater ones indeed than the one now in the making. Tullus knew this was as far as the Legion would come, if he wanted time to prepare for Gaspard's arrival. Ideally he would have made it to the marshlands of Ghislain, if the Anders maps were to be trusted, but by then Gaspard might well be lying in wait, ready to swamp the Legion with Chevaliers. Better, then, to abide by the old saying, and let caution be the better part of valor.

Well, maybe it was discretion, but all the same he wasn't about to hand Gaspard an ambush.

The Legion was digging in where the highway went beneath the gaze of a particularly steep hill. At its top he had placed his own command tent, in a position to properly view all that came against them. Currently, there was naught on the horizon but hills and woodlands, and the occasional flock of birds. The Legion was entrenching itself in concentric circles with his position as the center, spreading outwards like the rings of a tree. The lumberjacks had gone to work before last of the wagons had even come to a stop, taking their axes against the nearest woodland, whilst the Immunes and the Constructii went to work transforming the hillside and outwards from it. Trenches, ditches, earthworks and stakes. There wasn't a stone or boulder in sight, and having the mages altering dirt to rock would claim more of their time and magicka than he was willing to waste.

The trenches were broad, broad enough that no horse could leap it, and broad enough that eight men could stand back to back, and five shoulder to shoulder. Each had its front staked and palisaded while its back remained open. If it came to battle, Gaspard's men would have to take each trench while under fire from above, with no chance of cover. The hillside trenches were primarily for the benefit of the archers and gunners though, as well for the sake of the cannons which he had brought to the very top. There he dug them in, interspaced enough that should one explode - the Redguard ships sometimes went down man and all because one of the tightly packed cannons went off - it wouldn't cause the rest to blow in its wake. Below the hills, where the slopes turned flat, the men were even now busy hacking up the ground and shoveling it into baskets. Ditches, wide and deep enough for his satisfaction, would ring the entire area, twice if he had the time. The dug-up soil would be thrown just behind, used as filling in the timber palisade the Immunes were putting up. Orlais was nothing if not bountiful, and the woodlands were rich with spruce, oak and beech, perfect for palisades. If Gaspard brought artillery to bear, such as the fireworks Belisarius had described, the men could shelter in the trenches. Caltrops had been spread out in precise patterns, unknown to the foe but very much so to his own men. Belisarius needed close to a month to do what his men could pull off in a few days. It was the difference between the resources available to a relief force and a double-sized Legion under the command of the best damn tactical mind the Empire had to offer.

Was he being too modest in that claim? Possibly, though he'd yet to test himself against the military minds of Thedas, so he couldn't take the claim to the next level just yet. Gaspard was said to be a military genius, but had been beaten back by the meager forces at Belisarius' command. Trench upon trench, dug-outs and artillery nests, the mutilated hillside looked more akin to a bloated corpse with maggots crawling around than it did anything else. An anthill, actually, might be the better comparison. An anthill that could, on a moment's notice, let fly hundreds and hundreds of arrows, explode with blackpowder fire and rumble with the stomping of Legionaries.

The nearby woodlands would never forgive him, he suspected, the devastation he had wrought upon it. But his men would appreciate every stake, every spike between them and Gaspard's Chevaliers, he knew. Beyond the furthest of the deep ditches again, additional ones were yet to be dug. These he would fill with stakes, sharp and short, and cover the ditches with flimsy branches and grass. Be they men or horses, such would spell ruin for Gaspard's forces. Tullus caught himself in contemplations, recognizing the unintended rhyme. He chuckled, causing a few of the nearby officers to turn their eyes on him. His mind was not always for them to understand, he knew that well enough. Even less so was it for his enemies to understand, which was why he had never lost a defensive battle. They did not call him 'the Shield' for the protection he carried, but rather for the protection he _was_. He knew how to hold his ground, and would hold it against whatever Gaspard could throw at him as well.

The sun was close to kissing the horizon now. But, the men would continue their work, by torch- and magelight if necessary. Once done, they could sleep like the children they were. _His_ children. For what was a General, a _good_ General, if not the father of his Legion? And, as a father, there was a strange amusement to observing the ongoings of his Legion, whenever he had the chance. The Sixth in particular was interesting, seeing the interactions between the newly arrived Chantry scribe from Laysh and the men of that particular cohort. It seemed almost as if she had been adopted, and that one Centurion in particular had taken her under his wings. Interesting. Would they all yet live after the battle tomorrow?

Tomorrow...

Tomorrow, then.

Tomorrow Gaspard would come into view, and he, Gratianus Tullus of the Tenth Legion, was going to end the war. No matter the force Orlais brought against him, he could and would win the day. Considering the terrain, anything but victory would simply be too damn embarrassing otherwise. He drew in a breath, savoring the warm evening air before doing the same to the flask of Cyrodiilic brandy on his hip.

"Alright, Gaspard." He exhaled with delight as the fiery liquids scorched his insides; "My pieces are set up. Your move."

* * *

 **An amusing observation I have made, is that a great many people love to slam the last episode of GoT. I think they are missing the value of the battle. It is an OUTSTANDING demonstration of how NOT to wage a defensive battle ;)  
** **I actually took a few lessons from it.**


	51. The Sisters

**The Sisters**

* * *

He'd spent near three weeks in Kirkwall, before Varric approached him in the bar, late at night.

Daveth watched the dwarf, aware that the look on his face was anything but cheery. In hindsight he wasn't sure if he'd actually dared to hope for anything else. Kirkwall was a massive city, and its layout made _Denerim_ feel orderly. Probably was that if someone wanted not to be found, there'd be plenty of places not to be found in. Lot of those places brimmed with the scum of Thedas, those unholy whores plying their trade from the blood of unwary passersby's.

He'd spent the last two weeks killing that kind of people. It was good coin, and Varric had if nothing else proven to be solid on the payout. All the same...

"It's not good news, I'm guessing." He hid his disappointment in a mug of ale, the Nevarran sort he'd unwillingly grown fond of. Even a depressing hole in the ground like Lowtown had its upsides; "Wouldn't be walking like that if it was."

"Not all bad news, either." Varric offered, though it came out weak; "Still not entirely sure _why_ you're so interested in elves, but..."

"What?"

"Well, it's good news and bad."

"Bad first, then." Daveth put down the mug and turned on the stool, calming himself, steeled for whatever may come. At least, he hoped he was.

"The elves are all gone." Varric started, and though he'd steeled himself the words still knocked the air from his lungs. The elves were gone, meaning they'd _been here_ , meaning he'd missed them. If he'd just gone to Kirkwall first, not all those other places, he could have caught them; "There was an auction in Darktown, two days before we met. From what I've heard it's...it's likely they were sold there."

Daveth's breath caught in his chest as his throat seized up. _Two days before they'd met_.

Nesiara had still been in Kirkwall when he'd been poking around taverns. She'd been _so close_. They'd been in the same city and he couldn't do a thing about it. What if her voice had been one of the thousands constantly mixing up in the city's narrow streets?

"... _Good news_?"

Was that his voice? He couldn't recognize it now, or maybe it was just the world. It felt like he'd been knocked over the ears, and the pounding wouldn't stop, like drums in his skull, and an itching in his scalp.

"One buyer took all of them, don't know who though. But seller's a permanent in Kirkwall, he'll know." The dwarf went on; "He's a Marcher, but the bodyguards are Tevinter. Buyers might be too, all things considered."

His fists clenched, hard and tight enough that the wooden mug creaked between his fingers. A man he could kill easily, same with two, or five. If it wasn't too many, he could go right now, kill his way through them and get the answers he needed. The notion of mercy didn't even enter his mind.

"How many?"

"Lots." Varric scoffed; "Look, you can handle yourself, I've seen that. But there's no shame in asking for help...unless you're on a suicide mission, I guess."

"Got a company of sellswords in your sleeve?" Daveth muttered, only half paying attention to the dwarf now. Instead his mind raced with thoughts, frustrations and anger. He'd fought the fuckin' Blight for the sake of shit-sacks like these people. The Chantrists would go on about his fellow humans, unless of course those fellows were Ferelden, then apparently it was free-fuckin-game; "Not interested if you do, unless they're the bleedin' heart sort that'd work for free."

Varric seemed to muster up a small, if wry smile.

"...I might have just the people."

 _Just the people_ , as Varric had put it, turned out to be something other than Daveth had expected. Considering the way the dwarf carried himself, and always went armed, he'd thought himself about to meet a band of grizzled old sellswords. Halfway he'd even pondered if it'd be the Green Men, Irondahl's company, or whatever was left of them.

Instead, it was a pair of girls and a Mabari hound.

And one of them looked _damn_ familiar.

* * *

The night before a battle always carried a strange atmosphere.

Lucius watched his men, those who remained of the Sixth, as they finished the last of their meal. He wondered, for how many would it truly be the last? For how many of the armor-clad men and women around him would tomorrow be the last day upon Nirn?

He ran the whetting stone along the length of his blade, a monotonous but calming exercise. Many of those around him mirrored him in it, no one wishing to be caught dull-bladed against the numerically superior Orlesian forces. They trusted the General, of course. Gratianus Tullus was a deceptively cunning man, far more so than his bearlike size and mannerisms let on. Still, there was little talk even here, around one of the hundreds of campfires dotting the hillside and plains just below. Men kept quiet, none seemingly in the mood for banter when it felt as if the foe might be just around the corner, in the darkness of the night. They had spent all day and evening digging trenches on the left flank, sowing caltrops and planting stakes. If Orlais wanted to come at them with heavy horse, it would be a costly effort. They'd learn soon enough the folly of their actions.

At least, that was his hope.

A part of his mind that he was actively, somewhat futilely, trying to suppress, told him otherwise. It whispered treasonous thoughts, of the hopelessness of their fight. Reports coming down from his superiors told of a massive force coming their way. Almost half the Legion's numbers in cavalry alone, and with four times their total force in infantry and archers. Of artillery he didn't know, but the word was that Orlais was as keen on its use as the Legion, and possessed weapons of war not yet seen in Tamriel. Stories of the screaming arrows had spread, though he'd been unable to track from whence. He did not want to test their veracity.

And then the Orlesian Chevaliers, what of them? They were said to be neigh unstoppable, monstrous chargers clad in steel, with men atop them no less armored. He didn't envy the _equites_ their role, to potentially counter the Chevaliers. Would they be slaughtered? Would it be an evenly matched fight? He doubted the latter, and knew that even were they of like quality, the Chevaliers far outnumbered the _equites_. Legate Kratorius was leading one of the wings, and it felt like a death sentence to see the man astride his horse, clad in plate and wielding lance and sword. If the stories about those Chevaliers were true, what good would anything but a warhammer be against them?

The whetstone kissed his blade again.

The repetition gave his mind some ease, a way to push away the darker thoughts. He was unlikely to get any sleep tonight, not really. Sleep was needed, and for exactly that reason it was hard to come by. The men assigned patrols at least had that to calm their nerves, a sense of purpose by the braziers. They had scouts and outriders and mage-magicks watching out, there was no way for the Orlesians to sneak up on them, not like they'd apparently done in Ferelden, down south. Hard to know what rumors to believe and what were poppycock, but they'd bypassed the border, word was. By force or magicks or something third, he didn't know, and wanted none of it neither. He was a soldier, to serve the Emperor and the Empire, to be a shield between his people and enemy wrath, nothing less and nothing more. For, in all his life, he'd found there _was_ nothing more, nothing higher in life.

To risk it for a million strangers, most who wouldn't even know they were being fought for at all. Such was the life of a Legionary, and by the gods he would not let the fear overtake him. Glum and silent faces around him, men mostly younger than he. They were the Sixth, the 'Saint's Men'. They'd made their mark in the history books already. He noticed more than one watched him, dark faces underneath weary brows, with eyes vacant of much hope.

Saint Idoria's departure had crushed their morale. It had been a heavy blow to his own, but to the common soldiers, she had been their hope of surviving. They'd seen her, as had he, burning her way through the Darkspawn hordes when by all rights they should have consumed her, by claw and tooth. They had seen the will of the gods made manifest before them, a divine sign of grace and favor if ever there was one. And then, one morning on the march, he had to give them the news that she'd left the army. Where, he had no idea. The Legate either didn't know or wouldn't say, and that had been the end of that. No more questions, no more answers, just a ' _dismissed_ , _Centurion_ ', and he'd been sent on his way.

Again the whetstone kissed his blade, a dull hiss as it ran the length. He wanted to give them a rousing speech, something to believe in. But, what could he actually say? His own promotions had been so rapid and so recent, there were talks of favoritism and more. He still saw himself as a Quastor, even though he knew otherwise. Hard thing, to rise above the ground when you'd spent the past decades kissing it, growing _used_ to it. So, maybe he had no stirring words, nothing to make them believe in victory.

So deep in thought was he, he failed to notice Sister Saklya until she sat down next to him, though closer to the fire. The customary Chantry robes had been supplemented with heavier cloak and furs, against the colder nights in the south. Not that they were cold, at all, but compared to the warm nights of the Anderfels, southern Spring _was_ rather cool.

He expected that she would speak first, as had become tradition in their talks back in Laysh. Always there was a question, a curiosity she needed sated. Who was the Emperor, how did the Empire work, how was it governed, how many people lived in it, what did they believe in? Then came the questions of magic and he'd sent her to the elf-mage, rather than to admit how little he himself understood of it. Of course, it was easy for foreigners to think all in Tamriel knowledgeable on magicks, simply because they lacked fear of it and so many could use it. But it would be akin to believing all who understood a stone would fall if dropped, also understood the forces behind it.

"Have you eaten?"

Instead it was he who spoke first, the strange almost parental concern forcing his hand. It made it easier for him to overlook the way she often watched him, back in Laysh. Made it easier to think, and not make decisions that would ultimately prove foolish, at best. His days of such pastimes were behind him, and hers locked away by the Chantry. Easier this way.

"...somehow I didn't feel all that hungry." Her smile was weak, and unconvincing.

"You should still eat." He said, putting down the whetstone. Free of burden, his hands trembled; "Tomorrow...you might not have the opportunity."

She winced, averting her eyes from his as if stricken. Lucius frowned, becoming aware of what he'd said, and implied. Around them, what talk had been had was now quieted down, and more watched them than he was entirely comfortable with.

"...there's going to be a battle tomorrow, isn't there?" she asked, her voice low and soft. Quiet, as if she feared raising her voice would bring it about much sooner; "It can't be stopped..."

"There is." He nodded, uncertain of what else he could say. He had no children, no experience with finding soothing words. It had always been the other way around, his elder brothers giving either comfort or irritation.

"A great many people will die."

"They will."

"We're taught that the Maker weeps when the faithful kill one another." Saklya muttered; "Even so, he would have wept too, that good people will die no matter their faith."

"A caring god." Lucius agreed, though he was doubtful if it were true. If half the things he'd heard from Hossberg and the officers, and the locals, then the new story was that the Maker was gods-be-damned Lorkhan. In a way it was funny, that the Chantry would wage war on them for having a different name for the same god. More like it was because they argued his demise, but what god could be kinder, and greater, than the one who gave up life for the sake of its creations? "Wouldn't mind some divine intervention, you know."

"I know." She nodded, a small movement he almost missed; "...what will your- the Sixth's role be, in the battle? Will you be safe?"

"No one's ever safe during battles." He knew it was the wrong thing to say when he saw her stiffen; "We're not a full-strength Cohort, so the General has us on stop-gap duty. Plug the holes as they appear, or reinforce the line as necessary."

Silence reigned for a long, awkward moment. He couldn't tell if his words had eased her mind or made it worse. When Saklya spoke again, her tone was brighter, lighter, but without much mirth.

"...I know very little of your general." She said; "You trust in him? Many of the men seem to revere him."

General Tullus was their father away from home. How was he supposed to explain such a thing?

"The General is a father-figure to the Tenth Legion, as are most generals to their own men. We trust him, General Tullus in particular, because he's never lost a battle, and he's never wasted the lives of his men. I believe he will get us through tomorrow." It didn't cause his hands to shake any less, but the words were nice to say, and to hope others would believe.

Age made it none the better, and even the Legion's training and diet couldn't stop the body aging, weakening. He was past his prime by a decade at least, and he knew it. Maybe that was the real reason Legate Kratorius had promoted him, that he might stay away from the thickest of the fighting as an officer. The thought was both insulting and one that filled him with gratitude.

"...before a battle, what do Legionaries usually do?" the smile she wore when looking around was forced, for all to see; "I don't...suppose you just sit around glumly?"

"We had any musicians, we'd probably sing." One of the Legionaries muttered; "Thing is, they all died in Laysh. Can't sing without musicians, need the rhythm, you know. Even then, who's in the fucking mood to sing right now?"

"You're talking to a Sister of the Chantry, Legionary." Lucius said, though he lacked himself the energy to do much more; "Mind the language."

"...aye, 'pologies." The man shrugged; "It's the waitin', though. Feel it too, right Centurion? We're just waiting around, can't do for shit and can't sleep either. Gods know tomorrow's gonna be ugly."

No more words were spoken aloud, but for disgruntled murmurs around the fire. Lucius rubbed his brows, wondering if he would have the chance to do so again tomorrow night. Chances were just as good he'd be lying dead, caked in mud, with a spear through his gut.

Saklya turned from where she sat, staring into the dancing flames. He raised a brow when she reached for his hands, uncertain of how to respond until he felt her pressing something hard into the palm of his hand. When she retracted her own, and he opened his, the horn of Stendarr was within.

He looked to the girl for answers, not entirely understanding what had prompted this. The smile on her face was not one of joy, more so resignation, or simple acceptance of things he'd rather not think on overly much.

"It brought me comfort when you left." She said, her voice soft and low, as if afeared others would hear; "I may not believe in your gods, but you do. That made it...that's why it helped me, I think. But, with tomorrow being...if you might...I think, _I think..._ it's better you wear it now. It helped me, I want...I want it to help you too."

Some of the men around them chuckled, and Lucius found himself on the edge of a smile. The string through the amulet's hole was new, a better one than the weathered piece of leather he'd used before. He put it on, back in the spot he'd always worn it before meeting Saklya.

It was hard to find words for his gratitude. In honesty, he'd not thought to see it again ever, nor had he thought to see Saklya again. A storm of emotions raged within him, mane of which he knew to push away. He'd grown none the blinder to her feelings, to the reason she had volunteered. His throat grew tight and his breathing troubled, threatening a display that would be anything but manly.

In its stead, he forced a smile, though it _was_ a genuine one. It was hard to pry apart what happiness stemmed from her presence and what stemmed from having his amulet back.

"Thank you."

* * *

Nine-hundred and forty Chevaliers, twice that in mounted men-at-arms, and thirty thousand foot.

It was a mass of humanity Gaspard rode at the head of, an avalanche of boots and hooves and steel. They had made it to Churneau, marching day and night whilst more and more sons of Orlais joined their ranks. By the day, barons and dukes and counts had merged their own forces with his, joining them on the Highway like dozens of tiny streams of water, merging to become the mightiest of rivers. Tens of thousands of swords, spears, maces and axes. Tens of thousands of shields bearing the coat of arms of their respective lords. Thousands of hooves clattering and scraping on the burdened tiles of the Highway, and the braying of oxen pulling carts and wagons stuffed with supplies.

There was no point in trying to take the foe by surprise, not with a host of this size. Instead, with the rising sun at their left and a warm wind stretching out the banners of his men, it felt far more like the time was right for valorous marching and the challenging of the foe.

"Excellency!" the call made him turn, though he didn't stop his horse. Duke Bernard de Lion, gold-crested plate and all, rode to his side on a charger much like his own, barded in plates of castle-forged steel. The man seemed to have recovered well from his defeat in Ferelden, and the visit to the Grand Cathedral seemed to have likewise given him back both vigor and determination. Where many of the other lords now on march would complain of all under the sun, the good Duke hadn't but once voiced disgruntlement.

"Duke Bernard." Gaspard raised a hand to greet him; "You seem in a hurry, friend. What news?"

"Our scouts have returned, Excellency." The Duke pointed northwards; "Our foe likes two miles to the north, in the hills hugging the Highway. They've dug themselves into the hillsides and put up trenches and stakes. Deep and broad ditches as well, enough that a mounted man might vanish into them entirely. They're waiting for us."

Odd, that the foe would so change from being on the offense to handing him the initiative. All the same, he would offer no complaints. A stationary foe meant he could strike them from afar with his artillery, provided they had none of their own.

"What of their numbers?" he asked, eyes forward; "Anything in the skies above?"

"Nothing violated the heavens, Excellency." Bernard replied; "The scouts saw no cavalry either."

"No cavalry?" It was a strange, mad or simply incompetent commander who brought his army into Orlais with no cavalry of his own. If the outlanders were even devoid of their flying mages as well, his expectations of their abilities seemed sorely misplaced. The failure in Ferelden would see no repeat here, not on sacred, Orlesian soil; "Are you certain?"

"Scouts fanned out ahead of their formation, close enough to count the banners atop the hill. Not a horse in sight." The Duke shook his head; "There's a likelyhood of artillery atop the hill, but nothing tall enough to be a trebuchet. At worst they'll seek to pepper us with ballistae."

Like they had in Ferelden?

Gaspard recognized the dismissal in the Duke's voice, though it did little to hide the shame of such a loss of Chevaliers. Half the force he'd sent south with the Duke had been slaughtered ere they'd even made it to the enemy lines, shot from their saddles like common squires. Plate had meant nothing, even beyond what ought have been the ranges of a ballistae.

"All the same the elevation will give them an advantage in range as well as the power of their strikes." He said; "How far would you say we should position our forces away from their host?"

"...Hard to say, Excellency." Duke Bernard admitted; "I would at least put half a mile between us and the base of the hills. It would also give us room to maneuver, should they sally out. You have not asked to their infantry?"

"I need not." A smile found his lips; "If they lack in cavalry, flying mages and artillery that could outmatch ours, we need not do battle at all. We surround their position and starve them out. Our men will rest easy and well-fed, whilst theirs scrounge for roots atop their hill."

It was the paradoxical problem faced by all whose defenses were simply _too good_. The foe could opt to simply starve them out, a bloodless siege wherein only the defender would suffer, provided the besieger had competent quartermasters, and unharassed supply lines. Gaspard knew he had both.

"And should they sally forth, we crush them." The Duke nodded, a grim smile on his face; "There can be no mercy for the heathen invaders, Excellency. Much of the nobility agree in this, and the Divine herself assured me of its sanction."

Gaspard frowned, glancing to the Duke.

"If earlier reports are to be believed, the foe holds at least ten thousand men." He pointed out; "How would you go about dealing with such numbers."

"As Most Holy advised, we shall burn them at the stakes and quench the soil in their blood." The frown persisted at those words, a slight discomfort in his soul at the eagerness and bloodlust in the man's voice. More worrisome however, was it that the Divine herself had argued for such measures. Putting an enemy to the sword to a man, even a heathen one, was normally reserved for foes who pillaged, raped and plundered.

"Burning is reserved for the dead of our faith, Duke Bernard, not for the living." He rebuked the man; "We are not Tevinter lords presiding over Andraste's pyre."

He would not stoop to Celene's level. Pointless slaughter was _not_ the way in which he would end this, and he would _not_ be remembered as the Emperor who water Orlais' grain with the blood of surrendering foes. It was the way of the Qunari or the Avvarr, to butcher and brutalize. Not him, nor the Orlais he wished to leave behind.

"But, the Divine-"

"Is presently elsewhere, good Duke." His tone was colder now, harder. His authority would be sundered if misunderstandings arose from this; "I will have no burnings. If you disagree, by all means, burn them. Lend me your sword, I'll arm you with a torch instead for battle."

A heavy silence reigned between them as the horses plodded onwards, ever onwards. Blissfully aware of the plotting and scheming of men, they were. At last, it was the Duke who relented.

"Of course, Excellency." The Duke bowed whilst in his saddle; "As always, you are of the sounder mind. Most Holy rules the Chantry, but you are the blood and soul of Orlais. Were you to fall on the field, I...I know not what I would do."

Apparently, Ferelden _had_ changed the Duke. Gaspard nodded graciously, allowing the man his outburst. He had no intention of falling on the field of battle, nor of personally partaking. His days of such efforts were hopefully past him with the death of Celene. Age had a way of chipping away at the warrior in even the stoutest of Chevaliers, and aside that he was not so selfish as to endanger the stability of Orlais. Heroes' charges were for, well, _heroes_. He was Emperor, statesman and strategist. The Duke nodded, turning his horse. Gaspard watched him depart, the frown persisting on his brow.

It was worrisome, if the Divine thought herself of the authority to command _his_ campaigns. She had already forced his hand in Ferelden, launching that damnable March of hers before he had even encircled the foe, forcing him to split his forces and race for Denerim. It had proven the undoing of his forces, as it had for hers. Destiny had placed the same creature to block both their paths, the unnatural phenomenon that had once before inflicted defeat upon Orlais. _Alma of the Dane_ , the bizarre creature responsible for maiming him to invalidity, and then healing herself the wounds and broken bones she had inflicted. His hope was that she would remain in Ferelden. She had sworn as much, but demons and abominations rarely kept their vows.

Men like Duke Bernard were common in the ranks, of nobles and lowborn both. Fervent faith and devotion made for proud men and prouder soldiers. With the Maker's will in their backs, how could any man but fight, and win? Most Holy...he wasn't sure anymore of her schemes. The Game, for all he thought himself capable of staying afloat in its waters, seemed once more poised to drown him underneath its waves. It was always Celene's game, her joy in life. It had cost him his rightful throne, when she outmaneuvered him all those years ago. But, even the best of players could utilize their standing in the Game for little, when it came to the field of battle. Celene had enjoyed the support of more of the nobility, it was true, but where she had wasted elven lives in Halamshiral, he had seen the opportunity they represented. The elves had faced the choice of whom to support, and Celene had forced their hands.

Now, the Divine and these outlanders had forced his. Thanks to the Divine's own scheming, he had lost the initiative in Ferelden, and the outlanders had crushed his forces at Gherlen's Pass. Celene had scraped the coffers to the point of bankruptcy with her extravagant balls and constant construction projects, keener on the Great Game by far than on the future. Peace was well and good, but she had sown the seeds of discord. Orlais needed the lands of Ferelden, and he'd sought to take them without the brutality of the last campaign into the valleys of the dog lords.

Most Holy had brought an end to such hopes.

Now, when he was finished with these invaders and turned his eyes back onto Ferelden, it would be with an army marching as much on goodwill as it did on its pay, for there was close to nothing left with which to pay them. For all that the nobility had demanded the invasion of Ferelden, they had wormed their ways out of actually funding it. Those who thought Emperors mighty men were naïve indeed, for he was bound to the wills of his supporters, lest they withdraw it altogether in favor of someone else. He would return to Ferelden, but this time the foe would be stronger. His spies in their camp had revealed as much, that no time was wasted in rebuilding fortifications and recruiting soldiers.

A horn blew.

Another one answered, though Gaspard recognized it was not of Orlesian make. Rather it came from much further ahead, weaker too as if the wind had carried it only reluctantly.

He reined in his charger, peering forward. The outriders screened the army, bringing back news of the foe. This time, however, he needed no messenger to know what the message would be, though...he was hard pressed to understand the sight before him. True, he could see well enough the hills now, rising against the horizon. One in particular appeared more the visage of an anthill, carved up and studded lines and dots. It was covered in men too. Fittingly, they too seemed to fit the role of ants, a crawling mass of life running across its surface.

The source of his confusion, however, was not the hill itself.

It was the curious little tent, set up before the hill, yet seemed so far out that whatever defenses were placed upon the hillside could not have covered it. It seemed empty, and would have had difficulty concealing men seeing as it was an open pavilion more so than any kind of army tent. He turned and bellowed a command;

"HALT THE MARCH!"

It echoed down the ranks, thousands of men coming to a stop as the word was passed. Officers, lowborn and highborn both, ran and rode down the lines, ensuring compliance. Gaspard, meanwhile, watched the tent through the lenses of his spyglass. It was definitely the outlanders', which begged the question as to what purpose leaving it out in the open would serve. Was it the tent of their scouts, hastily abandoned once his forces came into sight? _Can't be, I see no sleeping arrangements, though a table and chairs?_

Was it a field command tent, then? He was not so naïve as to think it couldn't as well be a trap, perhaps the tent covered over vast quantities of lyrium charges, the blasting packs of the dwarves. Orzammar had taken side with Ferelden, though not yet directly challenged him. _What trickery is this, then? I do not believe they would plant furniture within for no reason._

His eyes were drawn to movement at the edge of his vision. Turning the glass closer to the hill, he could see a pair of riders emerging from the palisades. No cavalry, they told him? Here were at least two, and where there were two horses, doubtlessly there would be more. It was quite far yet, and even with the spyglass he couldn't make out much in the way of details. One man rode ahead of the other, carrying another passenger behind him, and the one behind carried a banner. A messenger then, but what kind of message? _It would be a strange thing were they to surrender before a single skirmish._

When they approached the tent, the two riders parted ways. The first continued to the tent, where he dismounted, and then aided his passenger in the same. Gaspard's eyes were, however, drawn towards the second rider, the banner-bearer. This one was approaching _his_ forces, of all things. A messenger indeed, though the first man's behavior and presence was now a greater source of confusion. What was the game here?

The banner-bearer shouted his message out the moment he seemed to believe himself within earshot, unwilling to come any closer than he must.

"I bring word for his Excellency, Gaspard de Chalons of Orlais!"

The deference was a surprise, certainly, but a welcome one. Gaspard gave his mount a tap in the side, driving the horse forward by a few feet. Enough that he stood out. If the foe wished to entertain him with flattery, let him do so. It would change naught about the battle itself, though he might find himself more lenient were the flatteries to continue, once his foe was before him on his knees.

"I listen!"

"My commander, Gratianus Tullus of the Tenth, General by the Emperor's will, Shield of Leyawiin and Troll-slayer, wishes to meet with you!" the wind carried the messenger's words better than his own, no doubt. It wasn't certain whether he had even been heard, or the messenger simply saw him stand out; "He awaits you in the tent!"

* * *

"You believe he will come to you, General Tullus?"

"I'm betting on it, Sister." The general chuckled, attempting to put the girl at ease. It was not hard to see why the Sixth Cohort was so fond of her. Despite, or perhaps because of her position in the Chantry, Revered Sister Saklya of Laysh was of an inquisitive nature, yet never broke decorum. He'd brought her along for a scribe, however, less so for her company; "Gaspard strikes me by reputation as a man determined to adhere to chivalrous behavior. If nothing else he'd see this as a challenge, and not wish to be shown the weaker man."

"What if he orders an assault instead?" she asked, unwilling to take a seat as well. Tullus gave her a smile, the same kind that'd have the women swooning in the capital - and would earn him a pinch from the wife.

"Then we'd better hope we're the faster riders." He spoke with levity that was only somewhat forced. Truth be told, it _was_ a gamble, and the odds were barely even in his favor. If Gaspard was smart, he'd charge, trying to take out the Tenth's leadership before the battle even started; "You've got enough parchment, I hope?"

She nodded, somewhat hesitant, showing off the thick stack of brown parchment. Strange thing, that paper was not yet a major thing in Thedas. It was easier to make, and easier to use. On the other hand, it was only easier to make if you had the machines, which Thedas likely lacked.

"General, if...if I may ask..." he gestured for her to do so. In a strange way, her adoption by the Sixth meant she was now part of the family. He wasn't quite sure _where_ that placed her, but it was a funny thought nonetheless. _The weird niece, maybe? She's Chantry, after all._ "...what do you hope to achieve by meeting with Gaspard?"

Tullus sighed, a long and relaxed exhalation. If he'd had his pipe, he could have blown rings for show.

"What does Gaspard hope to achieve, you think?" he turned the question around; "I'd like to think he wants as few of his men to die today as possible. We're pretty much alike in that. I also want as few of _my_ boys to die today, as possible. Best case, no one dies, the war ends and we get to focus on... _different_ problems. Personally I'd like to go home to my estate, make love to my wife and drink myself into a stupor."

The Chantry sister dared a smile.

"I'd not thought you an idealistic man, General." She said, cautious to word it right; "The men under you are all so..."

"Tough?" he chuckled; "They're Legionaries, 'course they'd be tough sons of bitches. The Legion does not break, the saying is, you know? They seem fond of you, the men of the Sixth."

Saklya did not respond, though it became apparent it was less a matter of her embarrassment, and more that from the Orlesian ranks, a pair of riders now approached. Tullus squinted, thankful that the tent blocked out the hardest of the sun's rays.

"Well, one's definitely decked out in enough gold 'n feathers to be Gaspard. Other guy I've no idea. Best make ready" he turned to the Sister, forcing a grin; "Get a smile on those lips, Serah. You're about to meet an Emperor."

* * *

 **Poor Saklya. She'll never get her Centurion-Senpai to notice her feelings...**


	52. Aggressive Negotiations

**Oh joy, an entire chapter dedicated to my least favorite thing to write: Negotiations. I'm sure this won't be atrocious at all... ^_^'**

* * *

 **Aggressive Negotiations**

* * *

A soft breeze blew across the plains of Churneau.

Saklya stood in the corner of the tent, clenching hard the parchments in her grasp. Her heart would not cease hammering as was it about to burst from her chest, fright and anxiety mixing with the exhilaration that came from witnessing events such as these. She was grateful for the heavy cloak once more, as it did much to conceal her fidgeting and shuffling from the older, seasoned warrior she was accompanying.

She had thought men like Legate Kratorius or Lucius were hardened, tough and grizzled, but they seemed almost meek compared to the picture of stoicism and brute strength that was General Tullus of the Empire. Even now, with all that had happened, the Empire remained more of an idea than a place to her, a source of warriors and soldiers beyond the scope of mortal men. Yet here was their leader, a man more akin to Qunari than not, strength and cunning embodied within plate harness and beard. He really did seem more of a bear than a man, and even being in his presence it was not hard to tell from whence his men's devotion stemmed. When he glanced to her, a mere nod had her nerves quieted and calmed.

Was he truly a mere human?

"Do you drink, Sister Saklya?" the question came as if out of nowhere, with little prompting from her. The General had a small vial in his hand, the waters within - if they were indeed waters - barely enough to fill a ladle. She shook her head. Chantry Sisters did not drink. It was not proper, even if the southerners in Ferelden did so during harvest feasts and festivals. But for all that she had walked the edge of what was proper for an ordained Sister, this was not a line she could cross. The bear-like man nodded, quickly himself pouring down the contents of the vial; "Now, keep your wits about you, Sister, we're about to have company. You know anything about those two?"

She wouldn't question what he had ingested, nor why it was offered her as well. Imperial customs were foreign and strange, as were the paths their minds could wander. Her own instead turned to where the two riders approached, now close enough that she could tell them apart by their social statuses.

"The man in silver plate is Emperor Gaspard de Chalons, you can tell by the plume of his helm." She pointed the Emperor and General out, the other hand still clutching the parchment and the hard board on which she would write; "The other man is of high nobility, a baron or a duke, I believe."

"Gold's not the Emperor? Really?" General Tullus chuckled, and in a way it was as if he was her father chuckling at a joke she might have told, so many years ago; "Could've fooled me, with all that pomp they're on about."

"I am not very familiar with Orlesian society, I fear."

"Don't worry about it. Not your job anyway. You do your scribery, I'll do my... _diplomacy_." he chuckled, waving off her apology as the riders approached. Closer now, Saklya was certain that she had been correct. The leader was indeed the Emperor of Orlais, a man of such repute and status that even though she was not a subject of his, there was the urge for deference. The Maker cared not for royalty or peasant, but there was no denying the aura of the Empire's foe; "Time to make friends."

The Orlesians halted their mounts close to the tent, yet far enough still that it seemed they meant to beat a hasty retreat should a trap be sprung. Saklya made a note of it, black ink scrippled in tiny letters against the brown background. The General stood from his chair, carefully placing it back rather than it topple over. There he stood then, waiting and watching - and so did she, with baited breath - as the Emperor of Orlais dismounted from his horse - and what a beast it was, a magnificent charger clad in plates of gleaming steel, with a horn of steel protruding from the forehead - along with his gilded companion, who seemed no less ready for an onslaught. Better scribes than her could have made sketches of them both, for there was nobility here beyond titles and riches.

"And so, we meet at long last, Gaspard de Chalons. Emperor, Statesman and General." Tullus surprised her by actually bowing his head in deference, and it seemed the gesture was no less a surprise for the Orlesians; "Your name has spread to the Imperial court, as has tales of your deeds. I am genuinely honoured to finally meet you."

The surprise yet lingered upon the faces of both Orlesians, as if the thought of deferent foes was an impossibility. Yet, Saklya now witnessed it, the nobility of the Legion's own commander. Civility in the face of the foe.

"Praiseworthy eloquence from one I would consider my foe." Gaspard spoke at last, stepping into the shade of the pavilion. Saklya felt as if she would buckle and drop if either general spoke a word in her direction. She could have carved the air under the fabric roof with a knife and grasped it, so heavy it was with the tension of uncertain foes; "You know me well, it seems, yet I am entirely unfamiliar with you, General Tullus of the Empire. For a foe, I did not expect such deference."

General Tullus stood straight and smiled, a smile she could not read.

"Foes we are, but we can still be civil." He smiled again, gesturing for the lone chair across the table; "Sadly I did not account for more than yourself, there is but the one chair."

"I will stand." The gold-plated nobleman spoke, his own tone lacking the respectful qualities of his Emperor's. It was clear to Saklya that they were of different minds, he and Gaspard; "You've no chair for the woman neither, I see."

"I am afraid we are not yet acquainted." The same smile on the General's face, like that of a bear eying a bothersome bug. It was a dangerous smile, promises of violence lying just below; "You clearly appear a man of noble birth, such as your armour's splendour betrays."

"You are most kind."

The nobleman dipped his head as he spoke. It was clear, however, that there was neither mirth to it nor an answer forthcoming. Saklya noted it down, cringing to the core of her soul whenever the scribbling sounded much too loud.

Gaspard, perhaps seeking to take back the attention from his comrade, took a seat in the offered chair, though he seemed contemplating whether or not it was all an elaborate ruse. In all honesty, she herself didn't know. The General had told her nothing, perhaps to ensure she could give nothing away. Or, maybe it simply _was_ a talk between commanders before battle was joined. _These things were nowhere near as complicated when it was all history in books…_

"You have called me out, General." Gaspard spoke, his tone regal and aloof, yet it bore caution too; "In acknowledgement that your forces have refrained from pillaging the towns it has passed by, I am humouring your request."

"I expected nothing less, from a man such as yourself." General Tullus grinned, digging into his armor. Saklya wasn't exactly sure how or where he had hidden it away, but the man withdrew an ornately made flask of expensive-looking liquor - and it could be nothing else. A golden liquid washed around within, intensifying more so than merely reflecting the rays of the sun; "Before we get down to business, mind joining me for a glass?"

Emperor Gaspard's face scrounged up, as did the expression of his companion.

"You would think me so naïve as to drink from the flask of my foe?" he said, each word seemingly weighed. This time, it was the face of General Tullus which was scrounged, though it was hard to see when half was hidden away beneath the thick beard; "I have had few experiences with your Empire that did not involve deception of various forms. Forgive me that I do not trust in a stranger so easily."

"My dear foe, you wound me." The General sighed, though she could hear a smirk in his tone; "This is no _mere flask_ , your Excellency. This is Cyrodiilic Brandy, bottled back at the start of the Fourth Era. It's a gods-be-damned _relic_."

"An easily _poisoned_ relic." The Emperor's companion remarked. Saklya scribbled it down, her mind wandering to the vial General Tullus had downed before the Orlesians had arrived. Was that connected to the brandy? Maker's Death, had he actually poisoned it?

" _You're_ fun at banquets, I bet." The General scoffed, turning his eyes to Gaspard once more as a pair of cups appeared as well, mysteriously withdrawn from the man's armor. Without asking further, he poured brandy in them both, handing one to Gaspard; "Excellency, you do not know me, so let me say this. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use poison. We can switch cups too, if you'd like."

"Oh?" Gaspard instead took the cup offered, of fine and tainted glass no less, though he kept it from his face. Instead he swirled the liquid within, seemingly admiring the sun's rays playing in its golden waves; "As my foe, how _would_ you kill me?"

"You'd be awake, facing me and armed." The General shrugged, a cheer on his face as he raised his own cup; "I don't do the shadowy shit like killing folks with poison, Excellency. I kill them in battle or not at all... Bottoms up. Fair warnings, it's got a _bite_."

It was only once the General had downed the contents of his own cup, visibly swallowing it, that Gaspard dared the same. His companion watched with an expression Saklya couldn't read, something between anxiety and anticipation. If he _expected_ it to be poison, wouldn't he have protested harder? Meanwhile, the Emperor's face scrounged up as had he eaten raw lemons, for the briefest of moments. Then it passed, and instead was the face of a man unexpectantly pleased.

"It… _certainly_ has a bite, t'is true." He coughed, putting the cup down; "Maker's Breath…"

"It's good, yes?" General Tullus didn't cough at all, maybe more wont to such powerful liquors. Whatever the cause, Saklya was glad she hadn't accepted the offer to drink as well. If the _Emperor of Orlais_ himself was so affected, she dared not think what it could have done to her smaller body; "You can keep the flask, by the way."

For a moment, though it was likely the aftershock of the drink, the Emperor seemed taken aback.

"A… _kind_ offer, General." He blinked rapidly, as if trying to force sweat from his eyes; "But, to the matter at hand. Even brilliant drinks will not staunch the open wound of your presence in my lands."

"Of course not." General Tullus nodded, putting his own empty cup back down. In its stead he placed a scroll on the table, giving the rolled-up parchment a nudge towards the watchful Emperor. Gaspard hesitated for a moment before he took the scroll, breaking the wax seal upon it; "His Excellency, _my_ Emperor, is willing to extend once more the hand of peace, ere he chooses the fist. White Peace, total absolution for any acts of aggressions committed by either side. Given how the wider Empire blames you for the Chantry's torching of several coastal towns, it is… not an insignificant absolution. Furthermore, the Empire would offer its assistance in the reconstruction of Jader, as it was by Imperial hands it was set ablaze. In return, Orlais will revoke its claims on Ferelden and its sovereign lands, as well as withdrawing support from the Chantry's Exalted March. Your signature would end the war before sacrificing more of your countrymen in a fight they ultimately cannot win."

" _Insolence!_ " the gold-plated nobleman swore; "You are in no position to do anything but grovel at his Excellency's feet."

"Calm yourself, Duke Bernard." Gaspard gestured, a hardness to his tone that brokered no arguments. Saklya made a note of the name, as the Emperor turned his eyes to General Tullus once more; "All the same he remains correct, General. We severely outnumber you in every field, and your supply lines are severed. What makes you so certain this is an even match?"

"Oh, it's not an _even_ match, Excellency." The General chuckled, leaning back in his chair; "Far from it. Aye, you've brought the most men. I brought the most soldiers. Duke Bernard, was it? You were in Ferelden, if my reports were correct?"

"And proudly so, for if not for your flying mages the outcome would have been quite different." The Duke huffed, his gaze shooting to the skies outside before landing once more on the General; "…and I see none of them here."

"Oh, they're not here alright." The Imperial chuckled; "Belisarius decided they'd done so well in Ferelden, they'd earned themselves some recreation." As he spoke, his grin widened; "Apparently Val Royeaux should be beautiful in spring."

The smile died on the Duke's face, as did it on Gaspard's.

"I do hope you didn't bring _all_ your remaining mages with you here, your Excellency." General Tullus went on; "It would surely be a shame if none were left in Val Royeaux to…receive visitors appropriately. Not that it would matter, I suppose, given the show they put on in Jader."

" _Heathen swine_ …" Duke Bernard's face had gone grey; "To even make such claims is-"

"Do not misunderstand me, Orlesian." When the Imperial spoke next, all levity was gone from his voice, and the smile had vanished from his face; "It is my task to make peace with your nation, but whether or not Val Royeaux burns depends entirely upon how you act in these next few minutes. You can swallow your price and have peace, or see your grandest monuments crumble."

Silence, but when Gaspard opened his mouth to speak, General Tullus was not yet done. In a quieter, yet no less hard voice, he went on;

"The offer will be the same then, but you will have lost far more than simple pride." He once more gestured to the scroll, a friendlier voice now speaking; "Sign the treaty and lead your men home. You can win nothing against us, but lose all instead. Do so, and I will give word for the Aviatorii to return to Ferelden."

The Emperor's face was dark with anger.

Anger, and not a small amount of fear. Even Saklya could see it, the shifting of his eyes as they went between the parchment and the man who had delivered it. Was it really true, about the flying mages? She'd only heard small bits and pieces about them, legends amongst the men of the Legion. Lucius almost had them made out to be gods of a kind, and the Orlesians' reactions seemed to only further this claim.

"How could I ever trust a man who would so easily threaten the destruction of my cities?" each word sounded as if it was forced from his throat, like a bile thrown back up. The fingers grasping the parchment pressed so hard they drew lines in the brown skin.

"We're at war, Excellency." Tullus said, simply, and with such an ease that it sent chills down her spine; "If we continue to be at war, you lose. If we stop being at war, everyone wins."

"Excellency, _you cannot consider this_." The Duke hissed; "It is a ploy, there are no mages of theirs over Val Royeaux!"

"And what if it isn't, old friend?" Gaspard asked, his own voice low; "Little enough remains of Jader."

"They will betray any pact made sooner than the ink has dried!"

"And if so expose their deceit for all to see, with no lingering doubts." The Emperor replied coldly, turning to his foe; "But in one aspect you speak the truth, at least. Warring serves none but the vultures, and of those there are enough already."

"Emperor, you cannot." Duke Bernard pressed; "The Divine herself decreed the destruction of the Maker's foes!"

"I tire of hearing of the Divine, good Duke." Gaspard retorted, his own voice a stark contrast to his countryman's. It was calm and collected, yet teetering on the edge of losing its patience; "She has no say in this matter, and I find myself tempted to dismiss her insistence as little but a play for power. She may be Most Holy, but she remains naught but a woman of mortal flesh. The Maker decides his enemies, we do _not_ do so for him."

"They have made themselves his foes when they proclaimed him dead." The nobleman argued, and Saklya was starting to wonder whether she was meant to write such down as well. A glance to the General earned her naught but a shrug, betraying that he was as taken aback as her. Or, maybe he was just waiting; "There can be no greater, no worse heresy than such declarations!"

"Excellency." General Tullus stood, a motion that though slow seemed a shock to the Emperor; "Time draws near that I must give word to the Aviatorii. Will you have peace or war?"

Silence once more reigned, as if all sound had been sucked from the tent. From the outside it had, with the thin fabric walls blocking at least the Orlesian army out. Saklya had wondered at that, for it was the only wall the pavilion had. Was it a deliberate placement?

"Do not do this, Gaspard." Duke Bernard urged again, his voice lower this time, yet all the more insistent. Saklya could feel her breath halting. What if there really were no flying mages over Val Royeaux? If it was all a ploy, then there would be nothing to stop Gaspard from realizing the ruse and reignite the war. What was honour against heathens, after all? "They affront the Maker with every step they have taken upon our homeland soil."

"Are you so keen on battle, _Ser_?" it was General Tullus who asked, cold eyes boring into those of the Duke, his voice the growl of a bear; "So keen on sending more of your countrymen to the slaughterhouse? Do their deaths _amuse_ you?"

"Any who fell would be martyrs to sit at the Maker's side in the next life."

" _Fuck_ the Maker, I'm speaking of your men in _this_ life!"

Saklya winced and stepped back when the hissing of a blade drawn filled the tent. Duke Bernard had drawn steel, eyes wide with rage. There was a wrongness to them, only now so much clearer. There was a wrongness to him, to his entire being. Something malevolent oozed from him, drenching the air with wrath. She could put no better words to it, beyond that it was _wrong_.

"Bernard!" the Emperor barked; "In the Maker's name, sheathe your blade; I will have no more needless deaths!"

The Duke's eyes were not his own. They were wrong, so very, very wrong that it made her nauseous. The General as well had drawn his blade, yet remained where he stood. Gaspard stepped between them, the Emperor exuding an aura of his own, one of command and authority in the face of whatever madness had gripped his countryman.

"By your will, Excellency."

Like his eyes, the voice possessed a wrongness to it that pained the ears. Saklya turned away, nausea mounting in her throat. She did not see the Duke sheathe his blade, but she _heard_ it. The sound of steel sliding through an unarmoured gap in the Emperor's plate. The crunching of mail against the blade it pierced the rings and sank itself into Gaspard's body. The crash as he stumbled backwards and struck the table, falling over and breaking the wood.

It was all done in a mere moment. A blink of the eye in which the Duke had sheathed his blade in his Emperor's body. Even before the Emperor struck the ground, the traitor had fled, reaching his horse ere the General had rounded the table, hurling a chair at the escaping murderer.

"BETRAYAL! BETRAYAL! THEY HAVE MURDERED THE EMPEROR!"

Even as he rode he screamed, bellowing the lies whilst blood still poured from Gaspard's body. Saklya was stunned, horrified beyond measure. She could not fathom what had come to pass, how such madness had unfolded before her eyes. It was not…it was not meant to be. It was wrong! It was wrong!

"THEY KILLED THE EMPEROR! THEY KILLED OUR EMPEROR! PREPARE TO ATTACK! VENGEANCE!"

"Sister!" she winced as a the cup struck her shoulder, hard enough that the wold seemed to snap back to a clearer, yet no less terrible vision. The General he…he was kneeling over the Emperor's body, pressing his hands against the wound. They glowed; "GIRL! GET THE HORSES! QUICKLY! RUN!"

"VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE! IN THE MAKER'S NAME WE WILL HAVE VENGEANCE!"

She dropped her parchment and the quill, dropped everything she held, and she ran. She stumbled, feet catching on the hems of her robes, but she hauled them up and ran, praising the Maker or the gods or whomever watched, that the creatures didn't flee from her approach. She yanked their reins and ran them back to the tent, even as the uproar grew amongst the Orlesian host. The cries for vengeance only grew louder and louder, hurting the ears and bursting her heart.

She didn't want to die here, not like this.

When she reached Tullus, he had not yet moved from how she had left him. The pool of blood around the Emperor had only grown, now soaking into the kneeling General's knees. He jerked up at her approach, one hand turning to flame before he pressed it down.

The Emperor's groans betrayed he was yet alive. With an effort Saklya could never mirror, the General stood and hauled Gaspard onto his shoulder. The sight was unreal, horror mounting in her heart as horns echoed along the Orlesian lines. A charge! A charge was coming! They were going to charge and ride them down!

The General slung Gaspard onto the horse's back like a sack of barley, then threw her into the saddle of her own horse, with neither caution nor warning. She was allowed no questions before he smacked the horse's rear, sending the beast into a gallop back towards the Legion's lines. She'd never ridden this fast before, or been this scared before, not even when the Darkspawn were inside Laysh. Her feet could not find the stirrups, and so she simply clung to the horse's neck, blind with tears of fear.

Now she feared death.

"Don't stop!" the General rode beside her, all former grace abandoned as he pressed his charger, urging the beast forward faster and faster, holding Gaspard before him like one would a child, and in sizes they were akin to such; "Don't stop, Girl!"

Up ahead, the palisades opened up to allow them passage. General Tullus barked orders and commands at every turn as they rode up the hill, through gates and over bridges laid atop the trenches. She heard none of them, her world awash instead in fear and anguish.

She hardly even noticed it when they reached the top of the hill.

Nor when General Tullus bellowed for the healers.

She didn't even notice when she slid from the saddle, too exhausted in spirit and body both to hold on. She could take this no more, she could do no more. Her skin was numb to the impact when she struck the ground, though the dirt was cool to the touch.

The darkness was welcome.

* * *

 **Poor Gaspard, religion's one helluva drug. Well, that or those dispensing it. I'm sure this won't end horribly at all.**


	53. Thunder over Churneua

**Thunder over Churneau**

* * *

A raven sailed the warm winds of near-equatorial spring.

Black feathers resplendent against the rays of the sun, hollow bones and tight muscles bearing each beat of its wings. It was a creature of oft unspoken majesty, a commoner yet a king of the skies. No bird of prey would strike it, no smaller creature suspect it. Farmers welcomed it near their poultry, for their presence kept away the larger birds, hawks and falcons, predators who would swoop upon their livestock. They were the wanderers of the skies, famed for intellects as cunning as those of the dirt-bound scroungers below, their two-legged oft masters.

Around one leg, it bore a knot. Red string held against it parchment rolled into a cylinder, a scroll of paper no larger nor longer than the last digit of a thumb. A wax seal kept it closed, partially guarded from the elements as its bearer carried on.

Onwards, ever onwards, the raven flew. On the warm winds of spring, magic older than the human Chantry within its mind. Magic older than the Veil, even. Magic so old, not even the oldest of its kind could have traced nor told where raven and spell were fused. The pigeons, those plumb, white creatures, only knew to find whence they'd come. They were lesser beings, in that regard. Lesser than the ravens.

Underneath it, the recipient of its charge awaited. There was no recognition in the raven's mind, only a certainty that it was so. Much as the pigeon did not understand _how_ it knew whence it had come, nor did the raven know how it knew where to seek its destination. They were whispered words, half-spell and half-prayer, chanted and muttered in equal parts in the towers of the gleaming mountain in the south. The humans there kept its kind, some on perches, the younger yet in cages, cared for in such ways that scavenging was never needed. The wild ravens scavenged, but spoke not its tongue. They were foreign to each other, as the humans were to those who had come across the seas.

The ravens knew of them.

The winds had carried cries of wooden water-things, each spilling out murders of metal-men. They had fought the un-creatures, those who left only disease and death. Like parasites that would cling between its feathers, scouring away the filth with steel-beaks and talons.

The lands of plentiful forests gave way to plains and hills. Down below, the nests of humans spread far and wide, the lines they drew in the plains replacing dried grasses with small, inedible bushes. When the season was younger, when the new chicks would hatch in the tower, the humans spread nutritious seeds across the dark soil. No matter how many nests they made, the humans always would make greater lines, marks of brown earth that later became golden with grain and grapes, delicacies both.

The calls of some great beast sounded below. Beyond nature, it caught the raven's attention. Smells too, the scents of men and horses, wafting upwards on the warm winds, catching its wings. Below, humans beyond counting, like shadows on the land itself. Half stretched across the plains, like a great dragon with its tail slinking and slithering into the body, leaving only the rock-clad lines man-creatures so fondly left in their wakes. The other half crawled upon a hill where the rock-line passed by, an anthill of humans and false-trees. There would be nowhere to perch on those, each little but a spike.

Somewhere down there was its destination.

* * *

The stale afternoon air buzzed with flies, each testing General Tullus' patience. Down below, Orlesians in their tens of thousands chanted and raged, bellowing their wrath and faith at his men. Misdirected rage, but whom would tell them but their foe?

That their Emperor was betrayed, not by his enemy in negations, but by his own in a flash of zealotry. If Gaspard even lived to see the first clash, it would be by the grace of Kynareth alone. A battle that could have been avoided was now a fate sealed. There would be blood spilled, enough to drench the land and grind the dirt into mud. Each chant was louder, each cry echoed further.

"They're not charging us." He commented dryly, mostly to himself. Saying went that Gaspard was the mind behind the Orlesian military, but there was every chance the foe had laid down plans before the meeting. Every chance the very man now grasping for life in the medicae tent had himself devised the plans that would bring about the Legion's destruction.

Life sure as fuck was full of delightful ironies.

He had realized something, upon the utterance of the Duke's name, back in the tent. Duke Bernard de Lion, or Lions or...whatnot. The name had rankled his brain, familiar despite never having heard it spoken before. It was only when the man's wrath had manifested, mere moments before treachery, that he tied the dots together.

The Duke had led the rear-guard charge on the Legion in Ferelden. Belisarius' reports had mentioned him by name, the leader who escaped by the skin of his teeth. The Chevaliers captured had spoken of him, often with reverence. A veteran, a seasoned killer.

A zealot.

It complicated matters, because of course nothing was ever naught by complications. Life would be boring, dull even, if it didn't ceaselessly hurl renewed problems at his feet, each an insult and a challenge. This one though...it meant an enemy commander personally familiar with the effectiveness of the Legion's bolt-throwers. Aware of the caltrop traps. He would not be charging his forces blindly across no-man's land. _Feh, nothing's ever easy._

Or rather, _one_ thing was. The Duke's intentions were easily discernable, assuming he was now the one in charge down there. Already it was easy to pick out where carts were being unloaded, beyond the assumed ranges of the Legion's field artillery. It was not an unsound assumption, given that he had not a single trebuchet positioned on the hill, and that neither onagers nor the greatest of his ballistae would reach the foe from here. It was a strange moment, tranquil yet a rush of adrenaline through his veins, to watch the foe. He recognized the skeletal frames easily enough, the quickness of experienced engineers as they worked to assemble trebuchets.

The foe believed themselves to have the advantage. If not for the cannons, they might even have been correct. Parts of him now wished that he truly _did_ have the Aviatorii over Val Royeaux, if nothing else than to put pressure on his opponents. Belisarius had granted him their use, but they had only been called from the Frostbacks yesterday. It would take time, he knew, for them to reach the field of battle. If the Orlesians rushed him, the Aviatorii simply wouldn't make it in time.

The error was entirely his own, he knew. Belisarius bemoaned his own failings, his underestimating the Chantry. Now, at least, he could tell the older man to put a sock in it. It was as much for the Emperor's orders, that eventual peace should be as smooth as possible. Burning down Val Royeaux had gone out the window at that point, leaving him instead with somewhat narrowed paths to take. The immediate path before him remained to utterly _crush_ the Orlesian forces in the field.

A mere victory wouldn't cut it, not here. General Tulius had won a victory of his own in Morrowind, taking more than half the assembled Dunmeri host prisoner, before releasing them once hostilities had died down.

Tullus knew he wouldn't have that luxury. Orlais _had_ to be made to understand the lengths the Empire could and would go to. The hand of peace had been slapped aside, though not by the will of Orlais' Emperor himself, but rather as it would appear, its Chantry. With the olive branch wilted and withered, now remained only the path of excessive violence.

"Tribune!" the officer nearest to him snapped about, stoicism and grimness etched into his features; "Raise the Dragon."

* * *

Lucius' hand clenched and relaxed around the pommel of his sword.

The sun, now a baking heat, bathed the hillside in its warmth, disregarding the moans of complaints from those entrenched upon it. The very armor each man wore to save his life in battle, forge-wrought plate and gambesons, chainmail and leather, now only served to wrap him up, drenching every scrap of cloth he wore in sweat. The gambeson was bad enough, soaking up his sweat, but the plate threatened to bake him alive, a fate no man should suffer. The hard waterskin tied at his belt already had seen its use, half of its contents gone before the battle had even commenced, and the water-bearers hadn't come around yet.

It was an eerie wait, kneeling at the front of the broad trench, the tip of his shield buried in the dry soil. The rest of the Sixth waited behind him, crowding the earthen ditch. Each man rested his spear against his shoulder, each with his shield before him to shield away at least some of the malevolent sun. The churned dirt was dry beneath his iron soles already, its smell mixing with the sweat of humanity in the thousands. They were halfway up the hill, behind the second palisade. It was a makeshift thing, at best, barely even worthy of being called a wall. Earthworks and stakes, little more, but he knew it was better than to sit in the open, waiting for the arrows to rain down, or the Chevaliers to charge in.

A dozen feet to his left, the crew of one of the scorpions leaned against the palisade, eyes closed in what little shade they could find. Their weapon had been dug into the earthworks, and only the pivot of the frame protruded, the rest of the piece locked in place by thin, wooden poles. They were probably relieved, knowing they weren't the ones who'd have to go down the hill when the lines started buckling. _Oh no, that'd be us. Immunes get all the fun and none of the risk, I swear..._

No one spoke, at least not to each other. He was neither deaf nor blind to the prayers uttered amongst the men, even some who incorporated the Andrastian 'Maker', whilst others included Saint Idoria. He had already said his own prayers, fingers tight around his amulet. Akatosh and Arkay would see him either victorious or safely guided to the Aetherius, and Mara and Kynareth would see his next of kin kept well and hale should he perish. Julianos, above all, would watch his men this day, he hoped. There was no shame in the fear he could see in the eyes of his men, trepidation and dread mounting in spite of their commander. It was not because they feared defeat, for General Tullus had never lost a battle with the Tenth in hand, but they feared death itself.

' _The Legion does not break'_.

The saying was old, older than the Mede dynasty by far, maybe even back to the Septims. It was hard to guess at when it had come about, but those who marched with the dragon banner had always sought to prove it right. Discipline and courage, strength and valor, a disregard for the foe but for the respect of his prowess. Caution and aggression, cunning and brute force, the Legion embodied it all, and more.

But the Legion was made up of men. Mortal men, who wished to live. Men such as himself, who could see no life but for the Legion, were rarer amongst its ranks. Most who served did so with the expectation of retirement, of peaceful living and farmable land afterwards.

The Legion was only as strong as the discipline of its weakest soldier. It was why the Centurions, a line he now walked, were so hard on the men. When there was something frightful at the front, it was best to put something even worse behind them. In a strange way, the command stick lodged in his belt was a greater source of fear than even the most monstrous of foes. _If you fight, the enemy might wound you. If you flee, the Centurions_ will _wound you._

But at the same time, Centurions were as much sources of fear as they were examples to follow. Beacons of hope and discipline. The points around which cohorts rallied. His signifier, the banner-bearer of the Sixth, knelt beside him, the purple and black cloth hanging inches above touching the ground. Never, no matter the circumstances, could it touch the ground. Mars Arelis was one of the few Hastatis to have survived Laysh, and had been promoted for it, far as Lucius was aware. Either way, the young man had been a shoe-in for signifier, after his predecessor lost his head on the walls. The position was an odd one, by default. It was neither Hastatis nor Principes, and had never truly been defined beyond its role.

"The General might give a speech soon." The boy - for next to himself, Mars was little but a youth - whispered. Anxiety and excitement shone from him, the energy of youth in a mind preparing itself for mortal danger. Lucius recognized it well enough from his own youth. Everyone who served did. His mind returned to Laysh, to the firebrand speech then-Centurion Idoria had held. Though Legate Kratorius held ultimate command of the Cohort, the Sixth was now _his_ responsibility.

 _His_ men to lead down the hill once the call was made, to be their anchor and guide in the battle now looming over their heads. It was not a responsibility he cherished, but for all he loathed what came with the rank, it was not unfamiliar to him. Rather, it had been so many years since last he wore the crest, it felt like willing a rust-sealed winch to give.

"You've all made it through Laysh." He started, his voice louder than it might need, but much of the cohort was out of earshot otherwise; "You survived the Darkspawn. Heed your orders, remember your training, and you'll survive this foe as well. I've never known finer soldiers, nor will the enemy, after today."

He turned to Arelis, his voice lower now, yet no less firm; "Stay by my side at all times."

"As you say, Centurion." The youth replied.

Lucius had little doubt he would, eager to obey and set an example to the men as he was. Horns sounded, nothing new in such, for the foe constantly blew their horns and chanted their chants. The wind was in his back, and it was hard to tell apart the chanted words. They were no-doubt from Chantry scripture, though, and Saklya might have even known what they meant, were she here.

It was strange. He felt little enough fear for himself, for his own life in battle.

But dread gnawed at his bones, at the thought of what would become of the Chantry sister, should the Legion be overwhelmed. What would the Chantrists do with a Sister of a supposedly heretical sect? Would they still respect her as Andrastian, or burn her for heresy? She'd been called on by General Tullus in the early morning hours, shortly after the Orlesian army had appeared, and he'd not seen her since.

He could imagine all too well the fear she must now feel, caught where no civilians should be.

"Runner approaching." Mars muttered, just in time that the Centurion could turn to see the approaching man. The gilded scales wrapped around his torso and shoulders put him clearly in the retinue of the General, though equally so was it evident he was no officer. The General's messenger, then, or at least one of them.

"General's about to speak. After, it's _O Tamriel_ "

Barely had the words processed before the man was gone again, moving down the line faster than Lucius would have thought feasible in armor. His eyes went to the top of the hill, where General Tullus no doubt watched them all from above. Like a Divine in the heavens, he could watch and plot.

 _O Tamriel_. Lucius huffed at the notion. It was a marching song, meant to keep the pace of even the most undisciplined men. But it was also a declaration of intent, a reminder of home and hearth, of what they fought for. The song was old, old enough that the Legionaries probably song it when they marched with Tiber Septim himself.

"Think the General's gotten tired of listening to them Chantrists?" one of the Legionaries chuckled, his voice dry and with little mirth. There was no humor but what the men could make themselves. Evidently, not even the quiet ere the battle could shut up seasoned campaigners.

In a way, it was comforting. To know the men around him retained some wit even now. Lucius suppressed a smile.

"Might be." He muttered. General Tullus was many things, but impractical was not among them. He wanted a song? There was a damn good reason for it; "Now shut up. He'll start any-"

" **Ladies and Gentlemen!** "

He could have sworn the man above was listening in, with timing like that. The men around him craned their necks to watch the top of the hill, steep enough as it was. There was magic in the General's voice, no doubt, that his voice boomed like that. For a moment, before he spoke again, even the Orlesians seemed to quiet down, only for their...leaders? preachers? - to get them going again. He wasn't even sure _why_ they were waiting around, those Orlesians. Why not just attack?

" **I know this journey hasn't exactly been the most exciting. I've marched you down what probably felt like the longest, most boring road ever to bear the weight of the Legion's boot."** There was _definitely_ magic going on here, but it was hard to tell whether it was the General himself or his staff mages doing it. Either way, it felt like Lorkhan himself was doing the speaking.

"Damn, pretty sure those Chantrists just pissed themselves..." one of the Legionaries snickered. Lucius whipped up a hand to signal silence, little else he could do. It _was_ humorous though, with how loud and far the General's voice carried, a few of the Orlesians might just think their Maker himself had come down to watch the spectacle.

" **But, lucky you, Orlais is a generous and hospitable country indeed!** " laughter was clear in his voice, a sense of levity and ease spreading with it; " **Today's entertainment is, as such, brought to you by the fine and noble sons of Orlais. Look at all those happy, smiling faces down there! They've come** _ **all**_ **the way up from Val Royeaux, just to welcome us and to tell us they're** _ **very**_ **sorry about this whole war thing. To make up for the trouble they've caused, they've decided to put on a show! An impromptu act, if you will. Of course, it requires some brave volunteers."**

Laughter spread amongst the men, and Lucius was hard pressed not to join. This...this was how you did speeches. Rare indeed was the officer who could inspire laughter in the men when outnumbered and surrounded by the foe. He could feel the dread leaving his bones, even if not completely. The warm dirt didn't feel so bad anymore, and the thirst wasn't as pressing. The Immunes by the scorpion were clutching their stomachs. He stood, raising his head above the palisade, curiosity getting the better of him.

From the foot of the hill, three lines of ditches separated them from the open plains. Two of them were beyond the palisades, while the last one formed something of a marker for the base of the hill. Anyone breaching either the palisade gate or the palisades themselves would have to climb that trench or be forced to stay on the path circling uphill. Either way, it was an archer's wet dream.

The Orlesians had rolled forward their field artillery, evidently confident in Tullus' intentions to stick to the hill. _That means they're blind on our cavalry_ , he realized, feeling some relief. If they discovered the Legion's cavalry now, hidden away in plain sight, there was no way they would leave all that machinery out in the open.

They were well within the distance of a trebuchet, though the Legion lacked its own. He'd seen those cannons the General had hauled ashore, but had no idea if they would outrange trebuchets. If they could, why hadn't they started firing yet? He wiped his brow, the sweat stinging his eyes even more than the sun itself. The coif did some to soak it up, a fact he knew would be a curse later on.

" **Orlais! We're waiting!** "

It was beyond Lucius to guess at the General's intents. Letting the enemy firing on them with field artillery was...not conventional, for lack of better words. Whether or not it was _sane_ was entirely a matter of how this all ended.

" **While we're waiting for our dear friends to get their show ready, how about we repay them kindly for all that lovely singing of theirs?** "

Ah, so that was probably the cue. His mind raced through the words and the verses, though there weren't all that many. Marching songs weren't exactly ballads, and for good reasons. It wasn't entirely clear, at first, who would begin. Usually the Centurions were the ones to kick up the pace for such songs... Lucius realized with a frown that more than a few of the men were watching him intently, waiting. From the other trenches, voices began rising out of the earthworks. From above and below both, a mounting choir that was yet little but a call.

"Legio!" he called, when the tune was right, his voice a mirror of every other Centurion on the hill. The song, originally, was Colovian, and its lyrics were as such. Even the men who couldn't speak a word Colovian knew it by heart.

"LEGIO. AETERNA. VICTRIX!" The men called, each word punctuated with a bellow, ten thousand voices merged to one.

"AETERNA!" The Centurions bellowed.

" **AUH!** " The men answered. Dirt rolled from the top of the earthworks before him; "O TAMRIIIIEEEL! O TAMRIIIEEEEL!"

"HER STRENGTH IS THE GODS', OUR DUTY TO AKATOSH!"

" _LEGIO AETERNA VICTRIX!"_ Lucius bellowed, his voice drowned by fellow Centurions as the chant shifted to common. He felt the blood heating in his veins, the will of Akatosh marching with their cause.

" **AUH!** " the men bellowed in turn, their spirits rising. No doubt the Orlesians were trying to match the volume, but the Chantrists had been droning on for hours. Now it was the Legion's turn, and they could sit back and shut up; _"SUPRA TERRAM CYRODIILUM, VOLAT DRACONIS LEGIONUM!"_

"TAMRIELI. AETERNA. VICTRIX!" Already his throat felt parched, but he kept the rhythm all the same, damn the thirst. Orlais would know what it faced before the slaughter began.

" **AUH!** " They cried, their voices reaching the skies themselves. Pride swelled within him, pride in his men and pride in his home. Now, in this moment, a sense of immortality grasped his heart; _"O CYRODIIL! O TAMRIEEEL!"_

" _A FERVENTI AESTUOSA!"_ His own voice joined them once more, streaks of dry irritation stinging his throat. Down below, on the plains, he could see the Orlesians cranking back the arms of their trebuchets, boulders rolling into place. From here, they seemed no larger than marbles; _"ELSWERII VOLAT DRACONIS!"_

" _SUPRA TERRAM CYRODIILUM!"_

" _O CYRODIIIL!"_

" _SUPRA TERRAM SUMMUS PETRAM!"_

" _O TAMRIIIEEL!"_

" _SUPRA TERRAM MORROWINUM!"_

" _O CYRODIIIL!"_

" _SUPRA SILVISTE BOSMERINUM!"_

" _O TAMRIEEEL!"_

" _SUPRA PALII ARGONIAM!"_

" _O CYRODIIL!"_

" _VOLAT DRACONIS LEGIONUM!"_

" _O TAMRIEEEEL!"_

The skies themselves gave answer at the final words of the song. Thunder cracked the air, so close and loud that lightning must have struck the hill.

* * *

General Tullus smiled, his eyes closed for but a moment as he relished in the song. There was just no beating the classics, no matter how many centuries passed by. Marching songs stayed the same, even if the provinces they sang of no longer were within the Empire.

He watched the foe with sharp eyes, well aware of their movements. Their field artillery was _well_ within range of his, but just on the edge of their own. Duke Bernard, or whomever was now in charge, didn't seem willing to risk him hiding trebuchets with magic, or something entirely else. Whatever the cause, he was a cautious bugger.

The song was nearing its end. Down below, the Orlesians were rolling ammunition into the slings. Black balls of pitch, from what he could tell. _Smart fuckers, really. They mean to spread fire in the narrow trenches._

Allowing them to do that was a serious risk. It was also a calculated one. Removing his cavalry from sight, and the lack of trebuchets on the hill would lure the foe into false security. As he had hoped they would, they'd rolled their artillery out into the open. This would be his best shot at gauging the range of Orlesian field artillery, with minimal risk to his men.

Trenches meant only direct hits would wreck any kind of havoc. He just had to pray there weren't any.

"Tell the cannon-crews to target the first salvo at their trebuchets. Fire the moment the song's over." He knew his aides were close enough to hear, and did not remove his eyes from their targets. The orders went down the line, where Redguard sailors adjusted their cannons onto the foe. There were no more seasoned veterans in their use. Powder had already been poured and the cannonballs shoved down the alloy tubes.

He grinned at the thought of the gift he was going to send the Orlesians. No mere cannonballs, for shame as such would have been. This was to be the maiden voyage of their use on land, and he'd be damned if he didn't make a spectacle of it.

Though they were forged in casts, the cannons were loaded with something far more interesting than mere iron balls. Grafted into the very iron were runes of fire, painstakingly wrought by the battlemages of his Legion until the iron spheres could have been used to illuminate the darkest streets, pulsating with a soft, angry glow. They would strike the ground, and then explode, but in doing so would shower everyone around the impact with iron shrapnel.

It was an unkind weapon, better meant for elves than his fellow man.

The song came to an end, even as he hummed its final verses himself. When ' _Tamriel'_ echoed up the hill, ten glowing embers found their ways into the ignition-holes atop their respective cannons. Ten holes fizzed and sparked with red-hot anger as the powder within ignited, burning with such speed that most would think magic involved.

First the culverins hissed.

Then they bit.

* * *

It wasn't thunder, nor lightning, Lucius realized with a start. Even as it rolled over the hills, he knew it to be manmade, wrought from iron and powder. He had seen the cannons and mortars hauled by horse, and had in the quiet privates of his mind questioned how effective such weapons could be on land. At sea, all they needed was a solid strike on an enemy vessel to cripple or even send it to a watery grave, but... on land it seemed a different thing.

You couldn't _sink_ an enemy army that had its feet planted in the soil already. And you couldn't shoot firepots from the barrels of cannons.

Such lingering doubts were cast to the winds barely a second later. Down below, even as the echoes of the song merged with the rolling _boom_ , geysers of dirt and fire erupted around the Orlesian trebuchets. Where the Imperial artillery had struck true, the trebuchets were blown apart, showering their crews and surroundings with wood and metal shrapnel, tearing flesh and shredding steel.

The chants died on the lips of the Orlesian host, an awkward and abrupt deadening of sound in the middle of a verse. Despair seemed to permeate the air above the foe, as if realization of what they faced only now truly struck them. Pieces of wood and flesh rained down where the cannon-crews had earned their septims.

But there were more trebuchets than there were cannons, and those spared the first volley now returned the favor, long arms releasing from rest as they flung their spite back at the hill. The distance was great, and the wind worked against them. Even then, many of the black balls struck home, striking the hillside and washing the lower trenches with fire and death. Those that struck true, by some malicious hand guided into a trench, they were the ones who could rub their hands with glee. Lucius shut his eyes at the sight, but could not shut his ears.

Burning alive was one of the worst ways to go, worse yet for those who lived, forced to remember.

The Legion's guns retaliated, reloaded and their aims adjusted, powder-wrought thunder accompanying the shattering of flesh and wood as the remaining trebuchets were sundered, shattered and broken apart in geysers of dirt and blood. Little but burning splinters remained of the Orlesian war machines, their crews fleeing back across the fields even as pieces of wood and men still rained from the skies.

As the thundering echo waned, he realized another kind of thunder had picked up. Laughter, from atop the hill, rolling over the hillside and down onto the plains, booming like the cruel laugh of an angered god. It _was_ the laugh of anger, though not quite a god.

It was worse, for at least the gods knew mercy.

" **ORLESIANS!** "

Dwarfing even the cannons was the volume of General Tullus. Lucius looked up, finding the General on the edge of the upper fortifications. He seemed so close to the edge a gust of wind could have blown him off. At the same time, the sight inspired a grin on the Centurion's lips. No sculptor nor painter could have wrought an image in his likeness. To see the Emperor's wrath embodied, stood upon the edge as he stared into the face of the enemy, and spat upon it.

" **BEG AND PLEAD WITH YOUR GOD FOR SALVATION! COME! COME AND SEE HOW THE EMPIRE WAGES WAR!** "

* * *

General Tullus scowled as he stepped back from the edge of the platform, wooden planks creaking under the weight of his iron-studded soles. It jutted out a mere meter from the hill itself, but the descent was steep enough that a wrong step would have been a costly mistake. He now knew what he wanted to know of the Orlesian artillery, but the cost left a bad taste in his mouth.

Tribune Salve waited for him, among the other adjutants, posture rigid and straight, awaiting orders. He marched past them, beckoning them to follow him into the tent. For now, he would give the Orlesians this last chance to tuck their tails and run. The main force was outside cannon range anyway, and he wasn't going to tip his hand by firing and falling short.

"Gaspard's not leading them anymore, obviously." He started, splaying out a wide piece of paper on the table; "But he probably laid down a strategy for them before he got shanked. Best we use the cannons sparingly, and..." he bit his cheeks, loathing what he spoke next; "...hold off with the mortars until they commit to a full assault."

It soured his tongue but he knew it was the better option. As long as Orlais underestimated how much artillery he had, it was a surprise he could pull on them. Losing a dozen men was... _strategically speaking,_ it was still sound, but left bile in his throat. He drew the contours of the hill across the beige surface, the near kilometer of hill represented as little more than a palm's breadth of black line on paper. With practiced hand he added lines to represent its height and steepness as well, lines upon lines flowing onto the previously virgin surface until he could step back and admire his work, even with a small measure of pride.

"They'll likely try and starve us out." The Camp Praefect muttered, a withered oak of a man who seemed frail enough that a gust of wind could snap him over. Euldysus was his name, one of the old guard; "We're not supplied for a defensive siege."

"The Aviatorii are headed north." Tullus said; "We only need to hold for another day or two, depends on the weather over the Waking Sea."

"We can hold for that long." Euldysus nodded; "Supply-wise, at least. I've the Immunes running water through the lines, keeping the men hydrated's crucial here."

"Good." The General drew lines from the Orlesian positions to their own; "They're aware now that we outrange them. That's bound to sting. If half the things I've heard of Orlais are true, it's not an insult they'll take lying down."

"You think they'll commit to a full assault immediately?" Captain Nostris Alki'r scratched at his stubs, his weathered and tanned face set in a frown. He commanded the Redguard artillery detachment, and strictly speaking was only included to better guide the aims of his men, and the overall use of blackpowder weaponry; "They outnumber us four to one, they probably _could_ achieve victory."

"They'd be fools to do so" commented the captain of Tullus' Evocatii, Lucius Vorenus. He was a sour man, but diligent and disciplined, and loyal to a fault, and younger than most of his peers. Tullus had personally requested his return to the Legion, once orders came to sail for Thedas; "Though such is already required of those who wage war upon the Empire."

"We're not fighting Dominion troops, Captains" Tullus noted, his lips wrought in a grimace of distaste at the reminder, that war might soon break out at home, and they were stuck here, killing humans; "They'd rather live than die for whomever ends up in charge, with their Emperor believed dead. Enough of them die fast enough, they'll turn and run."

" _If_ enough of them die, and fast enough." The Redguard grumbled.

"I'm trusting your kinsmen to ensure they do." He deliberately voiced it a challenge, a test of the skills of the Redguard cannon masters. The silence he received in kind betrayed its effect, and a grim smile threatened his lips; "They'll likely try and hit us from as many sides as possible, but from what reports from Ferelden suggest, they don't have means of communication beyond runners. Kill their officers, and their forces lose cohesion. We keep the cavalry out of the fight until the enemy's fully committed. I don't want to risk neither Kratorius nor Aristes against their Chevaliers..."

* * *

Unaware of the strategizing of his superiors, Lucius instead kept his eyes on the spectacle below. Little remained of the Orlesian field artillery but smoking stacks of ruined wood, and the massacred bodies of their crews.

He could admit to some pity. Those men had no idea what kind of foe their masters were throwing them against. Watching men die was never easy.

But, they had marched to fight the Empire. Even if he felt no true animosity towards them, there was no way this wasn't going to end with thousands of Orlesian dead. The Legion would not be bested in the field. He knew it in his bones to be true. Still, it seemed to be an opinion not yet shared by the foe. Instead, the display of Imperial might had only served to fuel their fervor, a constant, wordless warcry rising from the gathered host.

How many were down there, baying for Imperial blood? Twenty thousand? Thirty? It was hard to tell, beyond the specks of colors from banners rising among the sea of blue and steel-grey. It was more akin to a lake than a mass of humanity, and yet the fury rising from its midst left little doubt.

Horns sounded, even before the surviving trebuchet crews had vanished into the mass of soldiery. They echoed across the plains, each a claxon call for blood. He doubted it could be the start of a mass charge - such a thing would only litter the field with bodies, long before they would ever reach the Imperial lines. Instead, he saw, it was not so much a mass charge as it was the first line of soldiers splitting from the host, each man carrying before him a tower shield so large it left him little more than a moving door in appearances. Amusing though the sight might have been, it left a sour taste on his tongue.

Those men were going to die.

As they were his enemies, the knowledge should have gladdened him. Every enemy slain was one less to spill the blood of an Imperial, after all. And in the wake of listening to the screams of his comrades, it ought have left him downright overjoyed. He shifted his feet, feeling the armor chafe even though he knew, rationally, that he'd fitted it himself. He'd done the straps himself, secured it himself. It wasn't the armor digging into his sides.

In his gut it felt wrong, that they should slay their fellow men when greater threats loomed to wipe mankind as a whole from the surface of Nirn. He was a soldier, and would kill his Emperor's enemies. He would kill for his men, and for any who relied upon him. He would kill for Saklya's safety, but it would bring him little joy. When the shield-bearers passed the ruined trebuchets by, he held his breath.

They were well within range of the Redguard cannons now, yet no thunder rolled. A glance up the hill revealed the crews to be standing by their pieces, looking upon the approaching foe. So, it wasn't only to him this seemed wrong. The enemy was marching to their deaths, and not even hurriedly at that. His eyes latched onto them once more, wondering why. Why were they willingly walking into death?

"Distance?" had he been a Bosmer, his ears could have twitched at the question. Turning to face left, he saw the Immunes had manned their scorpion, a bolt already in place. One of them leaned against the palisade, a spyglass to his eye.

"Three hundred." The man said; "They'll hit the caltrops before they're in range."

Silence was his answer. Lucius could think of little to do but watch. No orders had been given, no commands or runners with word from above had been around. There was naught to do but wait for orders, and for death to strike the incoming foes.

"Think they're envoys?" the loader asked.

"You don't send that many men as envoys." The spotter scoffed; "They're sacrifices. They're waiting for them to either fall into the caltrops or get blown up by the cannons or spells, trying to figure out what kind of force we are, probably. Dunmer used to do it, back in the days. They'd march their slaves ahead of their forces, usually the same kind as their enemies, to make 'em hesitate. Tsaesci did it too, I think. Psychological warfare, you know?"

"Arkay's ass, that's twisted..." the targeter muttered. Lucius wished he could tell them to cut the banter, but as Immunes they were beyond his authority; "Just walking into death like that."

"Faithful men are easily led astray, Marcus..." the spotter wore a mirthless grin; "Sorry fuckers aren't even in on the right one either. Dying for a fake god is a bad way to go...twenty meters, then they'll hit the caltrops. Centurion, anything from the General?"

"Nothing." Lucius muttered, casting another glance at the hilltop. They were halfway up, and still the last two-hundred meters felt like a mountain. No signals yet, only the Dragon. But in itself, raising the Dragon wasn't an order to engage, just the order to take no prisoners. It was a grim sight; "Stay your bolts."

"Ten meters." It wasn't a reply, at first; "If those men reach the caltrops, they'll alert their cavalry."

He didn't respond to the Immunes, nor did he truly have the authority to do so meaningfully. If he gave them permission to shoot, and it went against the General's wishes, it would be on him. If he told them not to and they did it anyway, it would undermine his authority even further. _This is why no one wants to deal with Immunes on the battlefield..._

It wasn't going to matter anyway, if they were out of range. Scorpions didn't have the range of the stockier ballistae, and couldn't penetrate shields at that kind of range. It'd be cathartic to loosen bolts at them, but little would come from it.

"General's got it covered." He finally said; "If you're not receiving orders to shoot, he wants someone else to shoot them. Save your bolts."

"They're at the caltrops." The spotter said then, a scoff in his words; "Centurion?"

"Save your bolts." He repeated, his eyes on the Orlesians, though inwardly relieved the Immunes complied. They were dead to rights, every last one of them. Well within cannon range, if nothing else. To see them now wandering through the caltrops, stepping between the iron spikes, felt like a strange mockery of death; "Like you said; at this range you'd not hit them anyway... Keep them targeted, but hands off the cord."

Something felt wrong about even trying to kill men who so brazenly wandered to their deaths. Lucius had never been a farmer, but he imagined it was not unlike when cattle was led to the slaughter. Only here they were people, fellow humans. Since the start of the Mede dynasty, the Legion had become a force defending humans from the Aldmer and beyond. It felt like a violation of its principles. _But all the same, it's duty. Men or Mer, they are the enemies of the Empire. They would not hesitate to wash the soil in our blood if they had the chance._

His contemplations ended halfway through the caltrop fields, fifty meters ere the first ditch. One of the Orlesians stopped and plucked a caltrop from the ground, then waved it back and forth through the air like a child would a toy. It was clear enough what he was trying to convey back to the rest of the army.

 _Something_ struck him then, ripping his chest apart in a shower of red. There was no arrow, no ice spikes, no flames. Just the body crumbling to the ground, accompanied by the panicked yells of those who still walked, and the angered scream of an otherworldly bird. _Dead from the moment they passed the trebuchets, but what.._.

One by one, the others fell over, gaping holes in their bodies weeping blood. He'd seen no spellfire, nor any projectiles flung or shot at them. They stumbled and fell, some forwards and other backwards, soundlessly grasping at where chunks of flesh had been torn from their bodies, their shields broken before them like the flimsiest of wood.

Then, before the last body struck the ground, came the thunder again. Nowhere as loud as before now, but instead belched forth by hundreds of sources at once. The noise was less like thunder, truly, and more so like the screams of wrathful birds, though he knew no bird could make such sounds. When he tracked their source, he found the second ditch alive with men. He'd not noticed them before, for they were covered in green and muddy brown, a huntsman's clothes more than they belonged on a Legionary. Each grasped in his hands the long, cylindrical weapons Lucius had seen issued to some of the men back in the Anderfels, thin and grey smoke wafting from their openings.

Even when the smoke cleared, he could not tear his eyes from them. He'd never thought such unassuming arms capable of punching through both shields and mail, leaving such wounds on their targets. What might had a crossbow, when weapons such as these existed?

"Hey, Thoren." The loader said, leaning out of his cover to watch; "You think we'll get our hands on one of those?"

"More like they'll replace us, I think..." the spotter noted; "Look at that penetration. Couldn't managed _that_ with a crossbow."

Lucius wondered idly if it was so, but held his mind on the battle to come. There was no immediate reaction from the Orlesian host, only the maintained silence that had reigned since they sent forth those men to die. It was eerie, a sense of wrongness permeating the air. First casualties of the battle, and it felt more like a mass execution.

There was no doubt in his mind that the deaths of those men had been the intended outcome, though he couldn't guess why. It served no purpose, beyond... _beyond the caltrops_. The frown vanished from his face, replaced instead with a scowl as he realized what had happened. More so than merely discovering the caltrops, the Orlesians had no-doubt heard the crackling screams of the handcannons. With luck, they would think it spellfire and little more.

But as acting Centurion of a massacred Cohort, he no longer believed in luck. Seeing his men butchered by Darkspawn had squashed any such optimism in his spirits, and what little had been restored by Saint Idoria had been promptly ripped away once again by her disappearance.

Now there was just them. Just himself to rely on, responsible for the lives of two-hundred and forty-three Legionaries. Two-hundred and forty-three lives depending on his decisions, on his bearings in the next few hours.

Horns sounded again, louder this time. Like the final roll of thunder before a storm came to an end. But this time, the Orlesians matched it with cries of their own. He peered over the palisade, eyes locked on the Orlesian host. He watched as officers, Chevaliers no doubt, rode back and forth before their men, waving swords around as they gave stirring speech upon stirring speech, none of it reaching his own ears.

A single, echoing cry echoed across the plains.

" _DEATH!"_

Once more, it rolled across the grasslands, manmade thunder forged into a single word, a single, overwhelming desire.

" _DEATH!"_

A declaration even the gods themselves would hear.

" _ **DEATH!**_ _"_

When horns blew again, a long and clean, drawn out call, forty thousand men began their forward march. They did not run, though he'd have loved for them to exhaust themselves like that. It was a steady march, almost to the point that they marched in rhythm, and the ground would no-doubt shake when they neared.

Their advance kicked up clouds of dust, great enough that soon enough they might even blot out the sun. Looking to the skies, he found a single black bird floating on the winds, beyond it not even the faintest trace of shadowy clouds. Lucius found that he hoped there would be, if nothing else then to give him and his men some shade.

"Stand ready, men."

He turned back to his cohort, those lucky few to have survived Laysh. They were his family, and he was about to lead them into mortal danger. But he knew, in his heart, he would rather have half of the Sixth than a whole of any other Cohort, of any other Legion. He knew these men, better than he knew what little family he had in Tamriel. He tightened the straps of his helm and slid his blade halfway from its sheath. His fingers remained clasped around the hilt of his blade, however, as did his left hand in the grip of his shield. He was certain they could hear the pounding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears, if not their own too.

He smiled, in spite of it all, biting his cheeks as he watched the expressions of those of his men he could see the faces of. They were as grim as he, some heads bowed in prayer whilst others simply waited, watching him for whatever might come next. Mars was at his side, banner born proudly as the wind pressed it flat against its bars.

But the smile remained on him, and spread to a grin as he looked upon his men. _How many will be dead by nightfall? How many brothers and sisters will I have lost? How many men will I have killed?_

How many wives and children, how many parents would wail into the nights for the men he was soon to slay? How many brothers and sisters would be left behind, waiting for their siblings to return with tales of glory, only for news to later reach them of a shallow grave and a feast for the crows? _How many townships and villages will resound with lamentations at the violence we will have wrought by nightfall?_

How many eyes would he see, staring at him in desperation, pleading for their lives as his blade opened their bowels? _Breathe. Breathe, and smile. Let them see you smile._

"Rejoice, you lot, and drain your flasks. Today you get a chance to _earn_ your septims."

* * *

 **It is swell to have resumed my work :3**

 **I am now going to do the silly thing of promoting a story so good it'll probably make a few of you realize how shoddy mine is by comparison, but sod it, I enjoyed it way too much:**

 **Sometimes you stumble over a story, and it's so damn good you can't even be jealous at the amount of love it gets. I found one of those recently, a crossover between RWBY and WH40K, of all bloody things. The writer has a command of the english language I could only dream of, and a plot that kicks absolute arse. He actually makes firefights INTERESTING to read, which I can personally attest to being one of the hardest things to do in writing.**

 **A world of bloody evolution.**


	54. Firestorm

" _At the front of any Exalted March, the Faithful Brothers march. Ordained on the way to the field of battle, they fear no evil nor pain against their body. For they know surely, they will sit at the Maker's side. They have relinquished all worldly property, bearing on themselves only what is needed to combat the evil that confronts the Maker's children. In his name they would exact vengeance upon those who would besmirch and deny him, those who would spread mischief and lies. Corruption must be torn by the root and stem"_

 _\- Brother Cheshauss, Starkhaven Chantry, 8:48 Blessed._

" _Fucking fanatics. They kept going no matter the wounds. We shot, stabbed and burned them, didn't matter. I even saw one with both legs and his arm cut off, still trying to put a knife through one of the men's feet. The Men of the Sixth might have earned their name against the Darkspawn, but the Men of the Second fought the worst of Mankind. Even had their Chants nailed to the shields, like it'd do a lick of good."_

 _\- Evocatii-Captain Lucius Vorenus, 9:41 Dragon_

" _Used to be we could take the young 'uns stargazing in the hills outside o' town. We don't anymore, since those fuckers decided to burn the whole thing down. Still find dead people there too, poppin' out o' the ground like poppies..."_

 _\- Emanuel, Churneau shepherd, 9:41 Dragon._

* * *

 **Firestorm**

* * *

There was something eerily anticlimactic about the silence now reigning over the Orlesian host.

The death cries of the foe had died down, instead now replaced with only the thunderous roll of thousands and thousands of feet, trampling the grass into hard-packed dirt. Lucius watched them approaching from his vantage point, sheltered behind the rough-hewn palisade from the showers of arrows no doubt soon to be exchanged. He swallowed, the assaulting force to him more alike the incoming tide than any number of men. Their arms and armor reflected sunlight, only adding to the impression that they stood before a rising tide, a flood of deadly intent and fervent hatred.

' _DEATH'_ they had shouted, screamed and bellowed.

The word still echoed in his mind, unwilling to dissipate in the face of such a foe. He grasped more tightly around the hilt of his sword, wetting the leather grip with cold sweat. Closer and closer they came, jogging now as if whipped forward by their masters. Maybe they had priests among them, spurring them on with chants. Wet as his palms were, his throat felt like sun-bleached parchment, dry and cracked. The water-bearers were making the rounds, he could see, but doubted they'd get to his men before they were called down the hill. _Keep them from the missile troops by any means_ …

Suicidal orders, some would argue. He was tempted to be among them.

" _Cohorts!"_ He knew the voice - or at least the role - well enough, as the Praetor of the Sixth. Moments later came the reply, from down below, closer to the base of the hill and closer to the foe. The Centurion of the First, a man whose name Lucius didn't know, bellowed his response.

" _First ready!"_

" _Second ready!"_

" _Third ready!"_

" _Fourth ready!"_ came the reply, furthest to the west. The first to fourth cohorts were the first line of defense. They were all of them intact and battle-ready, prioritized higher by the water-bearers than the rest of the Legion. Once, the first line would have been purely Hastatis. Now, in an almost reversal of roles, they were some of the heaviest troops of the Legion, equipped to a man almost to the standards of the Triarii.

" _Fifth ready!"_

"SIXTH READY!" Lucius barked, having raked his eyes over what of the men he could see. All of them grim, all of them steady. They had steeled themselves, now only awaiting the storm.

" _Seventh ready!"_

" _Eighth ready!"_

" _Ninth ready!"_

" _Tenth ready!"_

" _Archers ready!"_

 _"Guns ready!"_

The last of the cohorts called out, and the lines fell into silence once more. There was no sound from the cavalry wings, unsurprisingly. He had no idea where they were, but then it was likely neither did the foe. Best to keep it like that.

Instead, his eyes turned back to the foe. Orlais was now no more than a kilometer away, approaching what he assumed to be the effective range of the cannons. It must be a dread thing, he pondered, to march past those wrecks and torn bodies, knowing you could now die any moment. _You can't even see the cannonballs, at least you can when it's trebuchets and onagers._

There was an old saying, that deeds lived on even when the body was dust. He couldn't remember the first to say it, but the saying was a sound one. Even more so when it applied to a Legion in its entirety. The names of the individual soldiers would eventually be gone, but what they wrought here today would live on. Their families would know of their deeds, and the Empire would too. If he died here today, the Empire would still remember his deeds. _No greater honor._

"Eight hundred." The Immunes at the scorpion called out, eye still pressed to the spyglass. There wasn't yet even a finger on the trigger-cord. Scorpions had an effective range of barely two hundred meters, half that if you wanted to break shields and armor plate, or bring down a horse; "They're almost at the mark."

Lucius cocked a brow, but remained quiet in the face of his own, nagging curiosity. He wondered, though, what mark they referred to. He'd seen none made when they were digging trenches, and could see none now either. If the Orlesians could, they remained undaunted by the discovery, and maintained their advance. He couldn't tell if the ground had started shaking or if it was his own trembling anxiety pressing down on him.

"Remember your oaths, men." He didn't shout, but in this silence he knew he didn't have to; "Remember your families. Your wives, your children. Your parents and siblings. Keep them in your hearts now."

"Seven fifty." The Immunes called; "Any moment now."

There was no time to ask, though at this point he was almost inclined to do so.

The hilltop roared, erupting like Vvardenfell itself as thunder-fire belched forth. More explosions ripped this time than last, and he suspected now those shorter, angled mortars had come into use. There was even less time to catch a glimpse of the cannonballs as they flew, even the slower ones flung by mortars into the skies. There was only the echoing roars of the iron barrels.

And then, the impacts.

Easily a hundred meters yet out from the trebuchets, it was clear not a one of the Orlesians had thought themselves in range of the Imperial artillery. They were still in dense, blocky formations when the first cannonball struck, sailing through the men like they weren't even there, tearing limps and shattering bodies with its mere passing. Disciplined formations became the death of those in them, marching almost shoulder to shoulder in the face of the nearing Legionary battleline. Now, they were torn asunder as iron balls ploughed through their flesh, an evil disregard for the valor of men.

Then came then explosions.

He wasn't quite sure what he'd thought to see, though...in hindsight he knew he should have been. He'd seen it once already when the trebuchets were blown to cinders. Here, the cannonballs finally struck ground, detonating with a violence uncaring for the lives of those still close by. Blooming flames spread metal shrapnel in a geyser of earth and blood, ripping men apart like wet paper, no matter their plate. Ten such geysers erupted, shattering the ground and the men upon it where they'd struck. Lucius watched them die, his face a placid mask of calm. Watching good men die was _always_ nauseating, killing them even more so. He'd joined with the Legion to butcher Aldmer, not humans.

But he would kill them all the same. None of those Orlesians would hesitate before putting a blade in _his_ throat, and he could afford no less with them. And with the Dragon raised, there would be no quarter given even to those who threw down their arms and begged for their lives. It was a grim prospect.

"Damn, there's little pieces raining down all over..." the scorpion loader chuckled.

Then, announcing themselves with a whistling tone reaching above even the blaring of horns and the screams of men, the mortars claimed their own kills, raining down like lethal hail. They drew no lines in the formations when they struck, announcing themselves instead when the Orlesian formations ruptured and sprayed themselves across their comrades and kinsmen in showers of red.

The sons of Orlais were a credit to their training, however, or their zealotry. Either way, they continued forward, perhaps instinctually realizing that only by going forward would they escape the fire-wrecking iron balls. They continued their forward march, striding past the ruined bodies of their countrymen.

Lucius found himself somewhat in awe.

"Five hundred." The Immunes noted, and one of his men slid a long, iron-tipped bolt into runway of their weapon. Iron meant it would bend and twist once stuck in a man, and like the pilum, couldn't be reused by the foe. The ballistae were the ones responsible for steel darts that would simply pass through a man; "Secondaries incoming."

The Orlesian front lines had reached the ruined trebuchets now, and he could start making out details. The frontmost men weren't carrying large shields, like their predecessors, though at first he'd thought they were. It looked more like... _rugs_? When cannonballs raked their formations, scything and tumbling through flesh, new men took up the rugs wherever their bearers were eviscerated or blown apart. Iron spilled from the skies, tearing holes in the ever tight formations of blue and steel-grey.

And they still kept up the march.

"Centurion?" the man with the spyglass to his eye said, turning Lucius' head just a little to face him; "Orlesians, aren't they supposed to have a ton of heavy cavalry?"

"Thousands." He nodded, turning his eyes back to the plains below. The question did bother him, however, and he set his eyes on the Orlesians once more, seeking out the Chevaliers.

"I don't see them." The Immunes noted; "At all."

Lucius nodded again, now understanding. It wasn't entirely surprising, though he hadn't considered it before now. Attacking an army entrenched on a hill...no sane man would send cavalry to such a task, no matter how zealous his faith might be. The Chevaliers must have dismounted when it was clear the Legion had sowed the area with caltrops. _Dismounted Chevaliers...what sort of foes are they, then?_

He could well enough imagine it, huge men in finely crafted plate, covered in steel from head to toe. He hoped his men wouldn't face such opponents. He hoped they would all be shot before killing any Legionaries. From up here they still seemed like tiny creatures though. For now.

"Should we send a runner to the General?" Mars asked, his voice low at his side.

"The General has an even better view of the battlefield than us, Signifier. Even..." Lucius answered, his voice hard and stern. It hid well his own doubts on the matter, he hoped. Halfway through the sentence his words were drowned out by the rippling roars of cannon fire; "Even if we did, by the time the runner got up there the General would have been told by the lookouts scattered around the hill."

There were _always_ lookouts, even if he'd no notion of how many or where.

"Four hundred."

Lucius turned out the observations of the Immunes, casting instead his eyes on the hilltop. He could see two of the cannons from here, black barrels breathing smoke like had they sucked too long and hard on the pipe. Men were already raising one of them up now, then another pouring blackpowder from small kegs into their barrels. Then another carried a cannonball, glowing an eerie red between his hands, and rolled it into the iron mouth. How it didn't ignite the powder he couldn't tell. They looked like you'd burn the skin from your hands just by touching them for a moment.

"Three hundred."

Mortars barked somewhere out of sight, their thick, stubby barrels a comical sight for all but the foe, he supposed. They were also easier to load than the cannons, and fired faster for it, though not as far. He glanced upwards, trying to track the arcs of their iron spittle, but they flew too high and too fast for his eyes to follow. The mortars shot Redguard bombs, cruel and hollow shells of blackpowder and metal scrap, with a fuse lit when the blast went off.

"Two fifty. Adjust aim for center mass." The scorpion crew complied, from what he could tell, angling their machine slightly more upward, as if they feared missing.

 _Missing_ was an almost impossible achievement here, he knew. But it also made it seem almost pointless to shoot bolts into such numbers of foes. Cannons roared again, though he suspected it was soon to be for the last time, ripping apart scores of men before the runes detonated, drenching the soil with bloody meat. Already their army had in its entirety made it past where the first artillery struck them, and left in their wake long lines of mutilated corpses, ripped apart by uncaring metal. Mortars repeated their howls now, striking down with explosive wrath. He didn't know what manner of discipline kept the men near the impacts from breaking and routing, or maybe it was pure faith.

"They're at the caltrops in ten." The Immunes noted, the edge to his voice hardening; "Prepare to send first bolt."

"Bolt ready."

When the Orlesians reached the caltrops, the purpose of their rugs became apparent. He'd suspected it already, but seeing them throw those thick, woolen blankets over the caltrops still surprised him. It wasn't a counter he'd ever considered before now. It wasn't just a single rug per caltrop either, but several atop each and every iron spike.

"Clever bastards, those Orlesians." The spotter _grinned_ , even as the Orlesians began marching over the caltrop fields like it was plain grass; "Hundred and fifty. They're in range. Loose the first bolt."

"Loosing!" the man with the trigger-cord yelled, even as he yanked the string. The metal mechanism tore back with a _thuck_ , releasing the spear-like bolt from rest. There was visible force in the kickback as the sinew-powered arms were flung first forward and then back; "Reloading!"

The bolt hadn't even struck before they were reloading, and Lucius could see, up and down the lines, as the same was repeated amongst the scorpion and ballistae crews. The latter had already fired off a few bolts, their ranges extending past what the scorpions could boast.

When half the Orlesian force seemed through the caltrops, a horn sounded, and not an Imperial one either. It was long, hard and clear, like smashing a crystal goblet against a wall and having the sound echo through the room.

That was when the foe started to run, foremost amongst them men who bore little resemblance to soldiers, clad in little but rags but with large shields held before them. Even from where he stood, Lucius could see what looked like scraps of paper nailed to their shields, uncertain of what purpose such could serve. They ran to the first of the ditches, sliding down one side before clawing their way up the other, disregarding those of their comrades who impaled themselves on the stakes at the bottom. It was also when the Legion's archers stepped up, and added to the storm their own hail of steel-tipped arrows. The warbows of the Legion could not match those of the Dominion Bosmer, but any who disregarded them for such a match did so at their own peril.

The Orlesians climbing up the ditches hugged the ground, their shields raised for protection. Those sliding down were less fortunate, and died in droves at the bottom, bodies and dying stacking like timber logs. It was an unnerving sight, to see men so eagerly hurl themselves at certain death. Some brought up wooden planks, logs and sacks, bridging the ditch to the best of their abilities. But even then only a few could cross at a time, the rest forced down the sides.

"Hundred meters." The Immunes noted again, his voice harder, tenser; "Keep sending bolts, focus on anything looks like a Chevalier."

"How's a Chevalier look?"

"Big, fancy armor." The spotter snapped, taking the spyglass to his eye again before he added as if a mere afterthought; "Fancier than the rest."

There was no time for the Centurion to ponder the man's words. Streaks of flame sprung from the mass of Orlesians still across the ditch, break all thoughts from their tracks. He watched as they neared, like shooting stars of gleaming fire burning through the atmosphere. Only here, they had been wrought by Orlesian mages, and forced him into cover as they pounded against the hillside, spreading fiery death wherever they struck. Arcs of lightning sprung from the hands of now more recognizable people, men and women in flowing robes and artistic headwear, raking the hill like the very wrath of Kynareth.

"I thought all their mages got fucked in Ferelden!" the spotter yelled, diving to the ground as a ball of boiling flame sailed above, splashing like water against the steep hill behind him. Even the dirt burst aflame, becoming little but dust in the span of a breath. _Eight Divines, keep us from evil._

It was not hard to understand the Nords' aversion to the arcane, with such displays.

"BATTLEMAGES! RETURN FIRE!" someone yelled, he couldn't tell who or where from. He didn't know why their own mages hadn't already let rip their spells, knowing the foe was well within range. But no immediate spellfire returned the gesture, instead only a new yell rose from the lower ranks.

" _Crossbows!_ "

Lucius frowned, at first confused by the call as it echoed down the ranks. Far as he knew, they had none themselves as the troops dedicated to their use had been given handcannons instead. Then, daring a look above the palisades as the bombardment went on, he saw them, the lines of large shields setting up across the ditch. These weren't the rag-clad men who threw themselves into ditches, no, rather they seemed far more well equipped.

He hadn't pondered them at first, thinking them little but the shields of common soldiers, but now he understood. In the days of Reman Cyrodiil, mercenaries from the Heartland had made use of crossbows and large, portable shields like that.

The surprise was only made all the greater when the Orlesians sent out their own bolts, shot from heavier crossbows than one man alone should have wielded. They went far, and hard, one punching into the wood of the palisade, only meters from where he stood. The Legion's archers gave account of themselves in turn, showering the offenders with arrows, though the effect was scant. Only when the handcannons belched fire did they break, to the sound of screaming, Daedric birds as iron slugs broke both shield and man.

The Legion's battlemages joined the fight then, and threw discretion to the winds. Pillars of fire and raging ice raked across the ditches and beyond. It was akin to dragging your finger through the sand, flowing through the Orlesians yet to dive into the ditch, and leaving little but cinders and frozen, broken flesh in their wake. Circle mages threw wards and barriers before themselves and their countrymen, Imperial fire splashing against the arcane bubbles like water on a skin.

Sometimes they broke the barriers, and incinerated those seeking protection behind them. Magic was a horrifying force to men like him, unleashed like it was here. What good was steel plate when it would only serve to boil you in it, like meat in a pot? Now he was watching and hearing Orlesians consumed with fire, and his own kinsmen breaking apart as spellfire froze them solid before they shattered.

But the noise was still the worst.

He could turn around and seek cover behind the palisade, but his helmet prevented him from shutting his ears against the ceaseless concert of death. The rain of spellfire and the barks and roars of cannons, the stench of burning flesh and blackpowder, of men who shat and pissed themselves when they died.

There was no escaping the music of death. It was as if they had stepped into the realm of Dagon himself.

More and more crossbows began making themselves known in turn, their large shields setting up aside and behind one another until it resembled the Legion's own shield walls more so than anything. They forced the Legion's archers to direct their fire at them instead, or risk suppression.

It was a duel of might, all but ignoring the infantry as instead mage fought mage and archer and handcannons threw their weight with the shielded crossbowmen of Orlais. Men like Lucius could do little but watch, duck and pray they were spared the crossfire.

"Aim the next bolt at the closest mage!" the Immunes yelled next to him, struggling to be heard through the chaos; "I want them-!"

The man's command became a choked scream as a hand-flung glob of fire found the gab from where the scorpion had loosened its bolts. The machine and its two closest crewmembers vanished in the boiling flame, their screams abudtly cut as they turned to ashes. Lucius hadn't even had a chance of turning away from the sight. The spotter was only scant luckier, close enough still that the heat claimed him as it did several of the Sixth's men, baking the flesh from their bones.

Some didn't even die at once.

"GET THOSE FIRES OUT! USE DIRT- SAVE YOUR WATER!" he shouted, fighting down the bile in his throat as he watched men under his command writhing in the dirt, the skin and flesh sloughing off their heads like wet rags. Boiling fire that stuck to the skin, a sap-like liquid more so than it was natural fire; " _HEALERS!_ "

Similar cries for aid mirrored his own all along the line, as the few lucky shots of spellfire striking directly into the trenches wrought mayhem and carnage. Even as he screamed for healers, he knew they could do little. Those struck with the blistering flames were not long for the world. He knew the damage well, far too much like what he had seen thirty years back. The elves had boiled his comrades alive back then too, and the screams still sat in his mind.

Now they would be joined by new ones. Down below, under the relative cover of their own mages and crossbows, the Orlesians were already scaling the second ditch, even as mortars still rained death amongst them, spreading shrapnel and fire. The cannons had all but stopped, however, their barrels belching smoke but silenced. The foe was too close now, too close for their barrels to aim so steeply down.

Even as the plains themselves were beyond him to watch, he could still see the lower ranks. There, the standard of the Second blew proudly in the wind, its draconic icon declaring the oaths of its bearers. The men were formed up, eight man thick. They held their guard of the lower hill, blocking off the path leading further up. They were low enough too, that the first palisade sheltered them from the Orlesian arbalesters, but he could still see where corpses had been dragged off by their comrades, trails of dark painting the lighter soil with a thick brush. The soil drank it up greedily.

Blood and flesh already flowed before the palisade was broken.

Not that it would be long now, either. The Orlesians had reached the gates, even as they were brutalized in their dozens by mortars and stakes, and the unrelenting showers of arrows doused from above. If not for the foe's own battlemages, he had little doubt there would have been enough to rout their troops, but as it was they were all but evenly matched. Orlais had the greater numbers of mages too, he realized now, the Legion itself having less than forty, with the Sixth having lost all but one in Laysh. But they remained, resolute and steadfast in the face of boiling fire and raging tempests, unwilling to give the enemy even a foot of ground. He drew in air, the heat singing his nostrils.

From a clear sky, the land had become an oven.

He could barely even see the skies now, the air itself red and hazy as fire consumed it. Flames licked the hillside every way he looked, dancing atop every stake or wooden wall. It was the kind of unnatural hellscape only magic and the Daedric powers could wreak upon the world. It was heavy in his lungs, a thick and choking gasp behind every breath. He could see it on the others too, pearls of sweat on their faces while they even yet remained unmoving.

When the water bearers finally came around, hauling massive kegs of life-giving, lukewarm liquids, his men could only dip their flasks too slowly, each as desperate as the other for even a droplet. He stayed back, wiping the sweat from his brow as he allowed them first rights. They would need it more than him, he thought, rationalizing his unwillingness to put himself before them.

As quickly as they had come, they were gone again, moving on to the other parts of the hill not yet covered, and once through they would refill and repeat. He knew the drill well enough, even as he slaked his thirst as best he dared. He knew he had to conserve some water, no matter the sand in his throat screaming otherwise. He nearly choked on what little he'd left when the palisade gates below were blown open, spellfire shattering the wood beyond splinters. A warm gust washed over him as he peered down, his jaws clenched with frustration at the enemy's advances. Even in the face of all the Legion could throw at them, they were still moving forward, like madmen unafraid of death.

"SECOND! MAKE READY!" Their Centurion roared, raising his sword at the rear of the formation.

His men responded in kind, a unified _**AUH!**_ shaking the air. They filled every available inch of the path, from the deep ditch to the steepest of the hillside. The only way through them, was _through_ them. They were a wall of steel and grit. Their comrades of the Sixth had seen off the Darkspawn, and they would not be found wanting when compared. The Legionaries in the front dug their shields into the ground with resounding _thuds_ , and metallic clattering as spears fell atop them.

"YOU ARE SONS OF TAMRIEL! SOLDIERS OF THE LEGION!" their commander screamed on, even as pieces of wood rained down around them; "BY THE EMPEROR AND THE GODS, NO MATTER THEIR NUMBERS! YOU! WILL! _HOLD_!"

Through the ruined gate, half-hidden by fire and smoke, the first Orlesians poured in, blackened and with skin made matte with soot and blood, appearing more like Daedric cretins than men. They wore little but rags and shredded gambesons, hoisting board-like shields before them as they waved about maces and axes, none to his eye bearing a sword. The screams wrought from their throats were those of men driven mad, an unquenchable thirst for death and killing.

Lucius stared in disbelief as they thundered up the path, sprinting as if it was a race to reach the foe, to reach _death._ He had seen the frenzy of the Aldmeri fanatics as their mages whipped themselves and those around them into suicidal charges, but these were _men_. _MEN!_ _Humans_ , not _elves_. How could such disregard for death grip them? How could such suicidal hatred find them in the name of the same god to whom Saklya, gentle and kind, prayed?

Down below, the Centurion of the Second bellowed encouragements to his men, his shouts putting anything Lucius could muster to abject shame. Even as tears of boiling fire dragged themselves across the skies and lit the ground itself aflame, he remained contempt embodied, anger and steadfastness exuding his every movement and word, as he marched back and forth behind his men.

"FOR THE _EMPIRE_!"

" **AUH!** "

"FOR THE _EMPEROR_!"

" **AUH!"**

"FOR _TAM_ -"

The rest was lost when the Orlesians crashed against the Legion's front like a tidal wave of death, maces, flails and axes hacking away with an Orc-like savagery. The sound was not unlike a hammer crashing through scrap.

Those men, they had lost all sense of life and pain, hurling themselves into awaiting spears and steel, even as they were rebuked and thrown back, gored on the thick-shafted blades of the _Lanciia_. Even then, they fought on, dragging themselves closer to the Legionary who'd gored them. The Imperials cut them down by the dozen, fanaticism proving a scant match against bone-hard discipline and training. Bones were shattered by the jabs of shields, legs and arms and throats cut apart by Imperial steel and training.

The Legion would not break.

"Centurion!" he turned from the madness below, seeing Legionaries in mail and brown-green capes approaching at a run, each bearing the thick handcannon tubes in their arms, their faces black with powder-borne soot; "Move aside please, we require the ramparts!"

He did as they asked, caring little for the ranks of the men who made demands of him. As he stepped back from the platform, he turned to face his men. Though he had already lost five of them, their stench-wafting bodies moved only slightly aside, the rest looked to him for orders. For guidance.

Barely had the last of the _fulminatae's_ taken up positions along the makeshift battlement before the first gave fire. Lucius winced from the noise, far closer and far, far louder than before. The chaos of the battle swallowed up the echo, but the sudden, sharp barks of the rest followed close behind, their violent staccato rattling his helmet. Already he found the air hard enough to breathe, but the belching, acrid smoke from those weapons made it downright cloying, watering his eyes.

Down below, the rag-wearing screamers continued throwing themselves at the Second, and to his kinsmen's credit, were thrown back time and again. Imperial shield-lines did not buckle beneath the violent charges of Orcs nor Nord Berserkers, no more so to their current foe. When the iron slugs started carving holes in them, their formation began to thin. Each blast of blackpowder fire brought a body to the ground, shattering and breaking bone, and showered those around with gore. Even when a shield was in the way.

The rest barely seemed to notice, even when splattered with the brains of their comrades. If anything, it only seemed to rile them further, to incense and anger them with zealous fury. Lucius found himself praying Saklya would not see these people, see what her own faith could drive people to. He hoped she was doing something else, atop the hill, ignorant of the foes beneath. Another volley rippled from the _fulminatae_ , tearing apart the fanatics beneath. Some of them poured smaller balls into their barrels, and shredded men like paper when they belched flame and iron only moments later.

Had these men been sane, had they been the kind of foes the Legion was drilled to kill, by now they would have broken and run. The Legion was a machine meant for cutting its foes into meaty ribbons, and here it was as evident as ever. The men, courageous and disciplined, rotated their ranks smoothly under their Centurion's command, allowing the front to withdraw and recover. The rear of the Cohort, stretched as it was, shone with golden light as men restored themselves from lighter wounds. Healers ran back and forth for those who no longer could help themselves.  
Scanning the rest of the front in his sight, Lucius found himself surprised to see that only here were the foes rag-clad and fanatic. The First, Third and Fourth all seemed engaged with regulars, sane men in blue and steel who fought with far greater discipline and sense than their zealous comrades. Their lines were by far more steady, neither side taking risks without cause. _Why only here, then?_

The fanatics kept streaming through the gate, replacing their fallen as if to mock any attempts at thinning their numbers. Beyond was nothing but smoke and death, fire, smoke and flame having left the plains had become all but invisible to him. Only the repeated hammering of mortars dispersed some smoke, adding then their own, as well as the resounding cries of shredded and broken men.

It was as if those fanatics were streaming straight out of some Oblivion-bound portal, endless in numbers. Even when blackpowder fire scythed them down in their dozens at the moment any would come through the gates, they still went on, screaming and wailing, pressing against those ahead of them as if they craved death, even climbing over their own dead and dying. It was a mob, nothing more, but a mob devoid of fear. Like a rat king, driven into frenzy, cornered and robbed of escape.

"Centurion Sevilius!" he turned from the chaos when his name was shouted, finding a soot-covered runner before him, panting and heaving for breath.

"Breathe, soldier." He wasn't even sure his own voice carried much anymore, such was the overwhelming and deafening noise of battle. The man obeyed, drawing in the warm, cloying air, for what good it might do; "You have orders?"

"You- you and your men-" he gasped, coughing; "Reinforce the Second. General Tullus wants you there _now!_ "

He wanted to voice his doubts, ask questions and demand answers, for why the Second and not the First, Third or Fourth, when they were the ones battling actual soldiers. At the same time, he understood the General must have noticed or thought of something else, something he himself hadn't realized yet. When he looked again, orders in mind, he felt the scene had changed.

The sheer mass of fanatics was pressing back on the Second, snapped spears and shattered shields marking those now in the rear. Others were pulling yet new comrades back, their limbs hacked off or crushed. A line of unmoving bodies already marred the path now, though a pile of far greater numbers marked the dead fanatics. For every Legionary made to withdraw, many more of the fanatics spilled their blood on the once-dry soil.

Lucius turned back to the runner, his jaw set in rock.

"By his will."

He saluted, and the runner took off again. Turning his eyes from the departing runner, he instead took in his men. It might be the last time he ever got to see them.

"Men of the Second!"

He drew his blade now, though under the red skies, no sun reflected in the steel even as he held it aloft for attention. He hadn't needed, they were all watching him, now standing straight and proud, all with a hand on the hilts of their blades. They stood ready, to fight and kill in the Emperor's name. As was he, as were they. He drew in the sick air, his lungs protesting at the violation;

"In the Emperor's name; _WITH ME!"_

* * *

 **Is there anything more terrifying than to be a regular foot-slogger in a battle where both sides commands mages?**


	55. When the Storm has been weathered

**This chapter...I think it's the first time I've written 10k words, only to then delete the whole damn thing because it was bad, and had to do it over.**

 **In short, I contemplated jumping off a bridge after being done with the second half, and just kept adding things because, technically this chapter was requested and I hadn't yet actually gotten to the point of the story where something important happens so it's...mostly fluff? From Talia, anyway. Second half's actually relevant, even if I wish I could have done a better job of it.**

 **I'm also getting to the point of having to reread 'Fires of Ferelden' to remember all the little details of my own creation that aren't in any wiki pages, like Dunmer and alcohol, and that kind of stuff. Enjoy the feel-good feels of this chapter, for we resume the carnage of Churnou next time.**

* * *

 **When the Storm has been weathered.**

* * *

"Ring the bell, it's time for their break."

When people imagined the future Teyrna of Highever, likely they thought of a woman in finest silks weave, with dresses and shoes of rich colors. They might even think of a more pragmatically dressed woman, wearing the more basic yet unmistakably rich clothes Eleanor Cousland was often seen in. Whichever one was imagined, both would see a woman seated behind a desk, or sipping wine in comfy chairs.

Well, in Talia's case the first was still handled and expertly managed by her mother-in-law. Eleanor, as if to spite any who so much as dared _suggest_ retirement was anywhere in her future, had taken up every duty her late husband would have fulfilled, in addition to her own. The Cousland matriarch, for all that she was a mere, mortal woman, was somehow just as terrifying a force as Talia's own mother. And she'd seen _her_ drive a _chain_ through a _demon_. She'd admit to her memories of the scene being somewhat foggy, mostly for her lungs filling with blood at that point, but still. It seemed she was never going to escape terrifying mothers, no matter the continent.

The second was...no longer a luxury she could enjoy. Pregnancy and alcohol didn't go as well together as she'd have liked, and in the end it hadn't been much of a choice. Especially when a mug of ale had sent her vomiting out a window. She'd then donated her personal ale keg to the kitchens. She didn't actually know if they'd dared drink it, but it was outside her reach now, and better for it. Once, the thought of giving up on alcohol would have seemed beyond the pale, the thoughts of madmen. Life as a Warden though had left little enough time for hangovers - though plenty of reasons for drink - and little enough coin to afford them. At some point, the need had simply ceased, and she found herself as if something was missing, yet couldn't put a finger on it.

Aedan, for his role of a Grey Warden, couldn't be considered a true Noble, not yet at least. Everyone in Highever who actually knew _who_ he was considered him as such, though, and she wasn't about to correct them. If she could, she'd prove them in the right soon enough. Still it left him in the uncertain role of a Warden without Darkspawn, without purpose. The same went for her, but leeway was given by the simple fact that she'd been more or less cleared of the Taint. It was definitely swell not having to worry about dropping dead before she reached fifty, if even that. Her husband had, for his part, been levied into the reconstruction efforts of Highever, and she had a feeling that had he not volunteered himself, Eleanor would have thrown him at the recruiters. _Something about not being a lay-about?_

For her own part, she had the unexpected pleasure of working alongside those of Highever's chantry that yet remained after both Howe and the Divine had run their course. One in particular was a special woman, a least to her. Revered Mother Mallol, whom both Aedan and Eleanor had thought dead after Howe sacked the place, had returned not many weeks after he'd fled Denerim. She was also the woman who'd wed her and Aedan, and had known both him and Fergus for most of their lives. Talia supposed that'd go some way to explain the almost motherly smile she'd given them both that night.

"Brace yourself, dear, here they come." Mallol said, wiping her hands off on the stained apron. It was strange how, for all that she disdained the Chantry's actions, Talia always seemed to find herself getting along with its representatives. That there wasn't a bad bone in the Revered Mother's body was probably a part of it, but still.

They both stood at the forefront of the makeshift kitchen, soot-stained and drenched in the juices of onions and apples. Talia's fingers had swollen from the scrubbing of ten thousand potatoes - at least she was pretty sure it had to be at _least_ that many - and sweat and tears mixed on her cheeks where the onions had worked their curses. As the hordes of workers drew near, the ground itself felt as if it was about to split, such a trembling ran through it. All around them, just like her and Mallol, women stood paired alongside with their children, ready to provide for their men as they undid the harm the Chantry had wrought upon their homes. The sight would have been fit for any novel, had she had the time to actually admire it. Instead, however, came the stampede of starving, sweaty men.

"Easy!" she had to yell when the crowd pressed up against the makeshift tables. She wondered if any of them even knew who she was, or if she was just another face in the mass of humanity; "Easy damn it, Hurlocks' got better manners than you lot!"

"Get in the line, you men!" Mother Mallol yelled, her voice like a crow when raised. A harsh sound that cut through all chat and banter, and cowed the men into silence. Or, maybe it was simply that she was perceived to wield the Maker's authority, enough at least that pissing her off brought with it all the necessary risks no man wanted to take; "Or you'll get to scrape it off the coals!"

Either way it worked, and the men, bare-chested in the heat and with coats of sawdust and soot covering a great many of them, started pushing and pressing each other into disorderly lines. Talia couldn't hide the smile brought forth by so many men cowed by a single priestess. It showed the power of faith, she supposed, even as she started filling their bowls with carrots and potatoes and onions. Further down the lines, other women added morsels of mutton and beef to the stew. Even if it really wasn't a meal for warm days, it definitely seemed to be appreciated.

"I don't suppose husbands get extra?" she grinned at Aedan's question as he appeared before her, naked above the waist and with his clean-shaven face shimmering with sweat. Actually, his whole body seemed covered in enough of it to reflect the light, and the sun _did_ nicely tan his body. _Goddamit it's not fair he gets to do that._

"Aedan, have some shame." Mother Mallol chastised him, and gave Talia a slap on the back with her ladle, breaking her from the stupor. Stupid, sexy Aedan, coming up here with nothing at all on him, dazzling her like that; "You're disorienting the poor girl."

"Sorry for _disorienting_ you, Talia." His cheeky grin betrayed that he was absolutely _not_ sorry. In the least. It was great when you could send others in a flush like that, and she should know. She'd done the very same thing the first time they'd met. She didn't give him extras, though she did slip him a kiss on the cheek before the line pressed him on. Some of the other men chuckled at the display, none of them with ill will.

"Ass." She muttered as he went on, leaving her to serve the rest of the crowd. She'd make damn sure he'd pay for that later, somehow. Did she have a spell for water conjuration? It'd be great if she could splash him out of the blue. Amateurs used buckets, mages shouldn't have to. Technically frost magic _was_ water, but she wanted him wet, not frozen stiff. She'd deprive him of sex tonight, if it wouldn't be just as much punishment for herself. Damn it, and damn him for being like that.

Half a hundred men later came the next curiosity, though this one at least she was more ready for.

"Did I ever tell you how great the apron makes you look?" Brelyna smiled at her, a cheeky smile it was too, as she approached with her own bowl. _Technically_ the girl wasn't the one doing the physical work, but she _was_ the one conjuring atronachs for some of the heaviest lifting, and no matter the skill, doing so all day for days at a time strained the mind, and drained the body.

"Like being half-naked and sweating does you." She shot back, and genuinely meant it; "Circumstances could be a bit different for my tastes, but hey."

Just because both of them were taken, and the Dunmer girl was now technically her sort-of sister, it didn't mean she couldn't appreciate what she saw. Wider still was her grin when Brelyna blushed, maybe only now realizing why many of the men around her were watching her, probably also while she worked. It wasn't like she wasn't modest either, but she _did_ make for quite a sight, trimmed down to a short-sleeved tunic and her old apprentice robes. Pluck enough layers of those things and you'd be set for just about any season. Talia's own, battered and torn as they'd been left by the Blight, were folded up in one of the dressers in her and Aedan's chamber, sewn and stitched to the best of Eleanor's abilities. Why exactly the Teyrna had insisted on doing it herself, she still didn't know, and it felt like an awkward thing to ask.

"How's the general reception?" she asked, pouring vegetable broth into her friend's - sister's - bowl; "You're not overdoing it, right?"

"Says the pregnant one." Brelyna giggled, moving on as the line went, though here at least no one pushed or shoved. The guys had manners, and she could respect that. Well, manners, or they were afraid of pissing off the girl who could pull monsters of ice and rock out of thin air. Talia decided to be generous and make it a bit of both.

She didn't actually know where J'zargo had run off to. If Eleanor had found him, no way he'd get out of helping somehow. She hadn't seen his furry ass among the workers though, and not just today. She knew he was still around, but he almost never made himself seen. It wouldn't be out of the question for him to be up to some shady shit, all things considered. She could still remember the flame scrolls.

"She's a very sweet girl." Mother Mallol said, even while ladling broth into bowls. There seemed no end in sight to the masses of sweating men, each with their own little bowl, each of a different appearance. Homemade, all of it, no doubt. There was a charm to it, really.

"She is." She agreed; "Wary around Chantry people though, in case she's been a bit...cold, 'round you."

"At first." The Revered Mother nodded, the swarms of hungry mouths as if distant to her. There was a strange anonymity to it, for them both she supposed; "She did not explain the cause, though I suppose with her appearance it is hardly a great mystery, a mage like her. She was taken for an abomination, no doubt?"

"Her and J'zargo both." It was stranger still that she did not feel awkward around Mallol herself, or felt a need to hide such things. Aedan trusted her, of course now more so than he did his old Nan. Unless the Revered Mother suddenly yanked a mask off to reveal herself as Alma, she was a trustworthy being. More or less; "I'm still not entirely sure how they got away from the Templars. We didn't."

"You were taken to Kinloch Hold." When she stared at the priestess, the older woman merely smiled; "Child, there are but two Circles in Ferelden, and I do not think Duncan went sailing for you. Also, Aedan told me."

"...fair point." She knew there was another Circle, but wasn't entirely sure _where_ it was. The whole thing about Duncan going sailing meant it was probably in one of the Bannorns on the large islands north of Ferelden's coastline. One of the men waved his bowl at her, taking her back to the present if only for long enough to resume an almost mindless repetition of serving. It was almost odd how well she got on with the Revered Mother, considering the older woman's Divine was trying to purge any Imperial from Thedasian soil, regardless of the collateral damages; "It's strange..."

"What is, Dear?" Mallol, likewise, spoke and served at the same time. Talia bit her tongue then, realizing that the subject was an awkward one. The Priestess seemed to understand she'd been about to shove her foot in her mouth, boot and all; "...when you arrived with Duncan, last year, I thought there might have been something about you, you know."

"We didn't meet."

"No, but I watched you." The older woman mused, smacking one of the men over the fingers when he tried reaching for an uncut potato; "Grey Wardens always bring such interesting entourages, Duncan was no exception. I hear he once accompanied King Maric himself, along with some other Grey Wardens. Orlesian ones too, if you'd believe it."

"I can't imagine that wasn't goddamn awkward." She laughed; "Wasn't Ferelden, you know, occupied by them? I know we're politically neutral, but still..."

"Oh, I'm sure it was awkward, but I heard Maric was quite the, how should I put it... _diplomat_ , around them." The smile on the Revered Mother's face was entirely unbecoming of a woman of chastity and piety. Talia liked it; "I was barely even sworn to my vows back then, but I heard rumors... that he and one of the Orlesians grew rather close."

" _No_..." Talia's voice became low, and conspiratorial; "Really?"

"As Andraste is my witness." The crowd was thinning now, and Talia was tempted to find and sit with Aedan to eat her own meal. The Revered Mother, however, was not done; "An _elven_ one, even."

"I've seen the elven women of Thedas." Merrill, in particular; "I can definitely see why he'd be into that. They'd damn adorable." A thought struck, scrounging up her face; "Wait, wasn't he married to...damn it, what was her name, I should know this by now..."

"Queen Rowan." Mallol said, her face falling into nostalgia, or maybe sorrow; "She had passed away years before, Maker watch over her. I wasn't old enough to understand how good a Queen she was, but my mother would speak of her, and the love shared between her and Maric. It was the stuff of fairy tales."

"Real life loves fucking those up, don't it?" she sighed. There was no such thing as an unspoiled love, no matter where or when. Her own life was a brilliant showcase of it, really.

Alistair and Leliana loved each other, and got murdered for it by the Darkspawn. Daveth apparently had a wife he loved, but Howe had sold Highever's entire Alienage off to gods-knew-where, and he'd gone after her, she supposed. Jowan and Merrill were...a thing? She wasn't really sure, and it seemed the young mage wasn't either. Brelyna and Ser Gilmore were...in love? Just fooling around? Again, she hadn't the faintest. Herself and Aedan were fine, unless you counted in the whole Grey Warden thing. Then they were decidedly _not_ fine, and she _really_ needed to find a cure for that shit before he started getting nightmares about things not Alistair-related.

"Have faith." A smile crept to the older woman's face; "If not in the Maker, then in your own gods. Surely you have one who keeps safe the lovers and the spouses? A god or goddess who watches over the family?"

"Mara." The word was almost foreign on her own lips now, after only a year away from Tamriel. There was no worship of her here, beyond what one made themselves; "She's...very much like Andraste, actually. When my parents wed, a priestess of Mara performed the rite in Evermor's Chantry."

"Your Chantry?"

"Right, uhm..." It was funny and almost unnerving both, how the word had come around. It was pretty weird, really; "Mara's temples and shrines are usually referred to as chantries."

"I see." Mallol smiled again, filling the bowl of the last of the men. As he turned and made for the eating grounds, where benches were organized and the ale was passed, Talia finally allowed herself to slump down on a carved log, stripped of bark and dressed in leather. The Revered Mother passed her a mug of water, as well as a bowl of the same broth they'd served the men, then found her own log and dumped herself on it; "If she is the goddess of marriage, is she also married?"

"She is." Talia paused, greedily drinking down the mug in one go. She'd barely even worked up a sweat, but the heat was getting to her. Summer was gonna be _hot_ , she could already tell; "To Akatosh, our chief god. You'd almost think someone had sat down and copied off someone's sacred texts, the way our gods are so similar to your Maker and Andraste."

"...an interesting coincidence." Mallol nodded; "Did you know _why_ the Divine began this Exalted March?"

* * *

"If I may have silence!"

Brelyna stood atop one of the oaken benches, mug of ale clutched in one hand. All around, the men and women who worked alongside her had gathered, their own drinks and meals in hand as they laughed and ate. It wasn't her fault that someone had cracked open new barrels of Highever Ale, at all. She'd just been polite enough to join in.

Hundreds of eyes were upon her now, the sun bathing them all in warm rays. The Dunmeri girl grinned, gesturing for the last of mouths to quiet down. Silence now reigned, interrupted only by belches and coughs. Taking a deep breath, she put the mug to her lips and poured down a gulp. If she'd actually been intoxicated, this might just have been damned dangerous.

" _BLEH!_ "

She burped, lacing the alcohol with magic as it spewed out, a brilliant gout of flame that stretched almost a meter into the air. It lasted several seconds, and when it had finally dissipated, she was ready for another bout, craning her neck back as a new flame sprung forth, angled upwards like a fiery fountain. She lessened the amount of magicka this time, letting the ale stay mostly liquid when it came out.

Roaring applause, far more than the trick really deserved. Sun and ale and great banter made for an easy crowd, evidently, and Brelyna exaggerated her bows as she received their approval. For a mage, she was in the unwont position of slaving alongside workers, and yet...

...she was actually having _fun._

* * *

"...claims were made, among them that the Maker has not returned to us for the simple reason that he died long before even the Magisters breaching the Golden City." Mother Mallol recounted, her expression somber; "That he died creating the world and us, his children. Does any of that sound familiar?"

"...maybe a little." Talia admitted, almost as if she ought feel ashamed. She didn't know _what_ had actually gone down up north, only what rumors reached down here, in backwaters old Ferelden. And it sounded a lot like the theories she and Brelyna had pondered, back in Redcliffe. Was this all just one massive coincidence, or something else? "It sounds... a lot like our creation myths, of Lorkhan sacrificing his own being to finish the creation of Mundus, the material plane. I'm sorry...if my countrymen somehow caused all this mess."

"Do you command the wills of others?" Mallol asked, her voice not unkind even though she spoke again before Talia had a chance to answer; "Then do not be sorry. We cannot take the blame for actions not our own, of will or deed. Your people might have caused the offense, that is true, but the reaction of the Divine was... beyond what could ever be called just. I do not know much of what has transpired in the Anderfels, but Ferelden owes your Empire and its soldiers a great debt. We would have once more been Orlesian subjects now, I fear, if not for your presence."

"Right, well..." Talia found refuge in her bowl, if for just a moment; "I'll pass it up the ranks, if I ever get a chance at it." It would be some time again before she could contemplate that kind of journey, however. By the day she was getting less and less able to move about; "Might be a while yet before I'm good to tear across Ferelden again, much less the ocean."

"You are due in autumn, are you not?"

"I think so." She nodded; "We're assuming I got, you know, on with it, the night before the Darkspawn arrived at Denerim. That's four months now, more or less." She patted her belly, these days feeling more like someone had shoved a massive waterskin under her dress; "Gods, halfway there and I'm already like this..."

"You should have seen Eleanor, when it was Fergus rolling around inside." the Revered Mother mused; "At this point she was even larger. Fergus was an entire month early, if memory serves, yet came out healthy as a hound."

" _Ouch_." Talia winced; "And now he's King."

"He is." Mallol grinned; "I've heard our Queen is quite the determined one. Makes you wonder if he has a say or it is all Anora running the country. Certainly was when Cailan was King, poor boy that he was. I think they loved each other, him and Anora. The stories at least say so, and from a young age at that."

"Darkspawn saw an end to that." she said, once again remembering what life did to fairy tales and love; "Hopefully the new King gets to die in bed. Seems like Ferelden's got something of a bad track record with kings. Maric disappeared, Cailan got murdered...Alistair was technically supposed to be next in line, bastard that he was. Darkspawn ended that too."

"Few were those who did not lose friends and loved ones in the Blight." The Revered Mother said; "I wonder, should I feel guilt or elation that I can count myself amongst those few?"

"Didn't you lose anyone when Howe sacked the castle?"

"I did." Mallol nodded, a sigh escaping her; "His Lordship, the Teyrn, was a fair and just man...and a good friend. The young lord, Oren Cousland, innocent and pure, slain. His mother too, killed as she would defend him. Even as they were all my liege lords and lady, I considered them my friends, and I grieve for them as I pray for their souls. Aedan's nan might have escaped, though I can only pray it is so."

"Family's been hit hard, all at once." Talia muttered, putting down her bowl for the moment. It was for the better to say nothing of Alma; "Eleanor...ordered me to stop blaming myself for it, but I still wish I could have done more."

"You got Aedan out." The older woman's tone brokered no argument; "You kept him alive during the Blight. In a world of darkness, you were the light to shine his path, even if you didn't realize it. You are no Andrastian, yet you embodied the best of her virtues in the worst of days."

"These days, maybe." She scoffed; "You said you watched me when I got here with Duncan?"

"I know what you imply." Mallol smiled; "And yes, when first I saw you I did see the anger and the indignation. I saw suffering too, and though it is frowned upon, I confess that I eavesdropped on you."

"...Isn't that a sin somewhere?" Talia huffed, though a smile creased her lips; "The way I keep meeting people like you, makes it hard to dislike the Chantry. Ferelden's at least. Apparently the Orlesian one wants me dead."

"We'd best keep you in Ferelden then, wouldn't you agree?" as she spoke, the older woman reached over and poured water into Talia's mug. Cool, fresh water. Many of the men took ale instead, watered down to prevent too many accidents, but for her it was plain water for the next five months yet. She gulped it down in a single swig.

"Thanks." She said, wiping the droplets off in her sleeve; "It'd be nice if I could get to stay in one place now, at least for a while. Feels like I've spent the last year just running around...Do I sound old if I say I'd like to settle down and just throw my feet up? Goddamnit I _feel_ old..."

"You are but one person, Dear." Talia cocked a brow at the reply, though she couldn't disagree with the observation. Unless Hakkon was a person, or counted as one. Then she was...what, one and a half person? "No one can fight all the time, not even the Drake of Denerim."

"Oh gods, please don't let that name stick..." she groaned, hiding her face in her palms.

"It's not a _bad_ name."

"It's _so_ cheesy... and yes, it's bad. I don't want titles like that, it's straight out of books my mom would read to me..." It was too, even if she had to make that observation in the darkness of her hands; "I bet it was all Teagan's doing, the _bastard._ He's the one who declared victory. It's bad enough he wanted to make 'Hero of Ferelden' my actual title..."

"Is it wrong, though?" Mallol asked; "Who would you argue the title should fall to, if not you?"

"Alistair."

"Alistair?"

"Alistair." there was not a shred of doubt in her mind there, either; "He led us throughout the Blight, gathered allies and even helped crown the Queen who sent the armies of Orzammar to Denerim. He gave everything to get us ready, then gave his life when we weren't. I don't want to consider what'd have happened if he hadn't been there, dragging us along by the heels."

"Warden-Commander Alistair Theirin, Hero of Ferelden..." the Revered Mother nodded, seemingly convinced. She raised her own mug of water, toasting; "Justly deemed by the Drake of Denerim."

Talia groaned again.

"You're awful." She tried to frown, something to make the statement convincing. Mother Mallol's energy made it hard to, however, and she eventually resigned to a smile; "But I think I like you. Which, considering I'm a heathen to your Chantry, should mean you're also an awful priestess."

"The Maker forgives all, even Revered Mothers who are too soft on heathens."

"Well, he'd better." Talia reached for more water, sliding her bowl along the table meanwhile too; "Five months time, I'll probably need your help with one."

"I would be honored to be of aid."

"Awesome." The redhead grinned; "Because, between you and me, I'm not really sure _what_ the heck to do once, you know..." the words were hard to form, and she waved her hand in circles trying to force them out; "...my mom should probably have mentioned this sometimes, but...do I just like...lay down and scream or...?"

* * *

"Are you lost, Ser?"

Brelyna wondered if she should have opted for another greeting. The Legionary Courier certainly seemed momentarily perplexed when he was addressed by a Dunmer with a broth bowl. He gathered himself again quickly enough, wiping sweat from his brow. The smell of horse was heavy on him, meaning he'd probably only just now dismounted, fresh from the road. _I have no water to offer him..._

"I seek Warden Talia Aulus, though... _Cousland_ might be more recognized around here." He muttered, glancing about. Brelyna smiled inwardly, imagining him searching the crowds for a woman in noble silks of Grey Warden armor; "Are you Lady Maryon?"

"I am." She replied, a bit surprised; "How...?"

"Rumors spread." He grinned despite the exhaustion; "There's but a single Dunmer in Ferelden, far's I know. Good thing too, General Belisarius wanted to convey his personal appreciation for your work in Amaranthine."

Brelyna was struck with surprise once more, unsure of how to properly respond to such a message. Even if it was just words, the fact that the General of the Legion in Ferelden was conveying his thanks... _whew!_

"Oh...uhm...thank you." She muttered, staring at the ground; "I just...thought it might be a good idea. You...you were searching for Talia?"

"I have a message for her, from the General."

"I'll take it to her." Brelyna said, smiling. The courier hesitated, likely weighing just _how_ certain he was of her identity and integrity. She wouldn't blame him either, should he refuse. She'd have refused. He did however hand her the scroll, his fingers lingering on the paper for just a moment longer than necessary. She nodded her thanks, and gestured for the closest water post; "You should find a mug and get something to drink, Ser. Ale's still mostly cold."

After the first week back in Highever, most of the guards and servants had started becoming accustomed to the presence of some of the less ordinary guests under its roof. Still, they were all as one curious about the nonhumans, herself and J'zargo notably. But while the Khajiit had been sent off to help find mushrooms in the forest, she'd volunteered to help with reconstruction.

When she walked up, arms bared and hair tied back, ready for work, people had watched her with curiosity.

When she'd started pulling out the Atronachs, the curiosity became disbelief.

When one of those Atronachs then shouldered a weight ten men would have shared, the disbelief became amazement and laughter.

Ferelden was a strange place. Yes, the people at first feared her kind, but because they were alien and unknown to them. Bar the smaller, thinner elves of Thedas, people here had never before seen her like. Dunmer especially, and she knew her alabaster skin was enough to make people talk. She just tried making sure it was good talk, good rumors. She helped people, cured the sick and healed the wounded. She'd taught Anders how to make the potions and poultices required to beat down the onset of the taint, but she knew he couldn't do it on his own. Not for long, anyway.

At the same time…she didn't _want_ to leave Highever, the Couslands especially. She could definitely see what had drawn Talia to them, their family a proud and strong, yet also humble and kind one. Aedan was like ripped from the pages of her friend's novels, books she'd admit her own preferences towards, and Eleanor could not have been a wiser, kinder ruler. She felt great sympathy for the old Teyrna, and admiration that in spite of the world's cruelty she carried on.

Not to mention she could crack the whip over all these people, musclebound and hard men, like it was nothing. There was an inborn authority there, something many with greater power never truly grasped.

Talia was, the curse of a Grey Warden aside, remarkably fortunate in how she had ended up. Brelyna knew many would envy the Breton her new lot in life, married into Fereldan nobility, with the prestige of name and title and deeds, and all the comfort that came with such. But, strangely, jealousy had never quite been a thing she'd found herself feeling. Not when she'd learned of the upbringing Talia had enjoyed against the harsh and strict childhood she'd come from, nor when it was clear that Onmund pined for the redhead, oblivious to her own feelings, and not now, either.

Envy was for lesser people.

She had enough blessings in her own life, all things considered. House Aulus had, in its magnanimity, adopted and taken her in as one of their own. She knew it was Talia's doing, mostly anyways. Rhea Aulus was of the Redorans, and had some ties to her own father. Whether that had served to tip the scales, she didn't quite know, and in truth preferred that it was a question unanswered. She had great and kind friends, and felt loved in their midst, and she could make a difference wherever she went, providing healing magic to those bereft of cures for common ailments. She could even stem the Blight, if the outbreak wasn't too severe, and was not blind to the adoration this earned her from those she had cured in Amaranthine.

There was even a man, a knight no less who adored her, body and mind in equal measures. Roland Gilmore was as close to the chivalrous ideal one was likely to get, and she was the center of his affections. That a man of such standing would embrace her, she still couldn't comprehend how to handle. Was he seeking marriage, eventually? Was it a mere fling, a romantic outing? She knew Jowan had experienced a short-lived romance with that bubbly Dalish girl, Merrill. Was that what Roland had in mind?

And what if it wasn't?

If it wasn't, then it wasn't, simple as that, in theory. She wasn't sure she wanted to actually find out if it really was so simple in practice, but equally so she was herself in doubts. She shoved the thoughts away as she made her way back to the serving station.

She found Talia where she'd left her, though now resting and in deep conversation with the Revered Mother, Mallol. It was a conscious effort to keep in mind that, though the Chantry had grievously wronged them in the past, not all who worked within it were guilty of its crimes. It was too easy to be mired and caught up in sweeping vengeance, when in truth there was but one person left she could direct it at. Well, in truth there were two now, but she was not so foolish or mad as to think she could bring the Divine herself to justice. Others would, she had to trust. The Revered Mother who'd wed her friends was not guilty of any crimes though, and had treated her personally with nothing but kindness and open curiosity.

Revered Mother Mallol was, she'd decided, a good person.

* * *

" _Equilibrium_?" Mother Mallol's face was a mask of silent dread, when the similarities to blood magic were laid bare; "Did it... it restored you?"

"Not...entirely." Talia muttered, scratching at the back of her scalp. The memory was not a fond one, but it was one she couldn't get around if she wanted to actually tell Mallol of her and Aedan's journey. Horrific self-maiming was part of it, as fucked up as that was; "Well, obviously I _was_ restored, but...it's more of a spell that gives a mage more fuel. Senior Enchanter Wynne and Morrigan both helped her, Brelyna that is. Also it took like...weeks, at least, I think. Whole trip back from Kinloch's still kinda hazy..."

"Maker's Breath..." the Revered Mother shook her head; "I cannot decide if the Maker must loathe or love you, the things you've endured."

"Oh, it gets _way_ worse later on." She waved it off; "And hey, I got a new tongue out of it. I even had a nasty blister on it before Kinloch. Didn't have it afterwards, which was great. And, you know how they say a bone regrown is a bone...something, something _stronger?_ And I broke...five, eight...nineteen bones, most of them ribs but both legs too and my left arm."

"He must love you then, to give you such a sense of humor."

"Maker, Lorkhan... _Sheogorath_ because why not" Talia shrugged, lifting the mug to her lips; "Whomever did, great, thanks."

"You always did have a strange outlook." the redhead nearly spat her water when the voice spoke from her left side. Brelyna had appeared there, and she'd not even noticed. _Honestly, these days feels like I'm losing my touch..._ "But, at least it's positive. Revered Mother."

"Hello, Brelyna." The older woman greeted her; "I was just trying to catch up on your story during the Blight. I'd not be surprised if it one day became folktale."

"Yes, I heard." The Dunmer nodded; "I would just like to emphasize that, though unorthodox, Equilibrium is an entirely sanctioned spell in the Empire, and Senior Enchanter Wynne herself agreed to its use."

"I wasn't about to accuse you, Dear." The older woman soothed; "I have seen you, and heard of your work in Amaranthine. The corrupt and foul do not stop to ease the pain of the small folk."

"She means she likes you." Talia grinned; "Sounds like you were the center of all the fun out there. What's up? I don't think we give seconds."

Brelyna smiled, put at ease by both the priestess' words and Talia's own assurances. Probably. She was always a hard one to read. The girl reached within her sparser clothes, withdrawing a sealed scroll. The _Legio Draconis_ , the symbol of the Legion, was pressed across it in cold, red wax.

"There's a message for you, from the capital."

* * *

"So…"

Daveth sighed, eyes forward in the crowded streets. Kirkwall's less well-off districts earned the name easily, Lowtown being menial enough, but with Darktown being even worse, the Alienage of Denerim seemed a palace in comparison. The city had started grating on his nerves from the moment he set foot in it, and the past three hours of walking its streets hadn't exactly done wonders for his opinions of it.

Street preachers continued their rants of doom and damnation on every other corner, Chantry clerks in dirty robes who screamed and yelled about the final stand of Andrastian faith against the heretical invaders. That this, oh this, was indeed the truest test of their virtue. The Maker's will to return would be decided upon the outcome of this war against the heathens. Honestly they were starting to piss him right off, 'specially what with how they ranted about _purging Ferelden of its heretical taint_.

"… _Daveth_ …"

Strange, or fucking funny really, how no one had seemed to give much of a damn when it was the Darkspawn overrunning his homeland. Back then the rest of the world, Chantry included, had seen fit to stick their thumbs up their bums and wait it out. Well, rest of Thedas at least. Those Imperials had come around in the absolute nick of it, and if nothing else they'd given Ferelden a breather, 'fore those Orlesian dicksheaths had decided time was right for an outing. Lot of Fereldans had fled first from the Darkspawn and then the ensuing war with Orlais, most of them to the Free Marches.

"You ever been to Lothering?"

He wasn't entirely sure _yet_ , if it was good fortune or his usual, rotten luck that had landed him with his two - _three_ \- new companions. Hard to forget the Mabari, 'course. As a Fereldan raised right 'n proper, he knew how important Mabari were. Aedan had one, emphasis on the _had_. Poor blighter got butchered at Ostagar, another case of those supposed to extend the helping hand giving you a smack on the ears instead. The hound - _Daisy_ , of all things to call a hound the size of a small bear - trotted along with its two owners, a pair of Fereldan women who'd glued themselves to him for the past two days, licking up every scrap of news from back home they could get.

Or, he supposed, anything that wasn't _soaked_ in the current fashion of equating Fereldans to the goddamn 'vints. Funny thing was, he'd chatted up the more timid of the two, back in Lothering. Bethany was her name, and now he supposed he understood her shyness. Mages outside the Circle usually weren't too flamboyant about their magic, really.

"I might." He replied.

Jonah and Bethany, they sure made for one _odd_ pair. Apostates in probably the worst city in Thedas to _be_ apostates in, and they walked around with staves and all, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Considering this was Darktown, he supposed caution was warranted, but still. He'd once thought Talia was careless around Templars and the like, but compared to the Hawke sisters - _twins_ \- she'd been on Leliana's level of keeping her shit tight. Jonah especially seemed keen on being discovered, wearing a strange, red smear across the bridge of her nose. _That shit better not imply blood magic...Jowan's bad enough, I don't know these people._

"But you're not from Lothering." Jonah continued, pressing with an ever-enduring curiosity. Hard to think Bethany was her sister, for at least the other girl seemed capable of restraint. The _leading_ Hawke sister didn't even seen to know what restraint _meant_ ; "Got a city-boy accent to you. Met some folks from Highever once, way from yours, so…Denerim? Amaranthine?"

"Jonah." Bethany sighed, most of her face hidden away beneath the heavy hood. At least they'd both taken the precaution of not showing their faces _and_ their staves. Problem was he didn't have a hood like that, so he'd be recognized in the company of apostates. Did being a Grey Warden still protect him in Kirkwall?

"Beth." The short-haired girl replied, tongue-in-cheek. Daisy gave a bark; "Daisy."

" _Ladies_." Daveth tried, oh by the Maker he tried being diplomatic. How exactly did Varric last around these two without losing his mind? Or, maybe that was why he'd thrown them at him first chance, a ray of hope to escape their presence? Stocky lil' bastard, if that's how it was; "How about we try 'n go even louder? Pretty sure there's people at the Gallows who can't hear you just yet." He paused, sighing; "Denerim, by the way, 'cause you'd not stop asking I figure."

"That's a Sovereign, Beth dearest." Jonah grinned, holding out an expectant hand. The calmer, less boisterous sister sighed and fished one from her belt, relinquishing it only reluctantly to her sister's palm. Daveth watched them with a souring of his stomach, like an old man. He was almost not even surprised that they still carried Sovereigns around. No one in the city accepted the currency of the heretical land, after all. Jonah seemed to catch on, at least to his stare if not the reason for it; "Beth bet on Amaranthine, I said Denerim."

"Amaranthine's under Highever, it'd make sense for him to be from there if…" Bethany paused when she seemed to realize he was watching her. Her cheeks reddened; "…sorry, that was inconsiderate."

"Not even been a full day and you're already getting red on the cheeks, sis?" the sister laughed, shaking her head before her tone quieted down; "Fair point, though. Okay, Daveth, where's this pack of shitskins then? Varric wasn't exactly generous with the details."

"Darktown, at least the main sales are going down there. We'll dig around and look for anything out of the ordinary, secret tunnels, shanked bodies, that stuff." Jonah snorted at that; "What, you got better ideas?"

"Well…" the woman started, a light grin ever-present on her lips; "Beth 'n me didn't exactly survive Kirkwall by begging alms from passer-by's, we know a bit of what's going on around here. Darktown's a slum, bad enough to make even Kirkwall's alienage seem like a haven of prosperity in comparison. It's where you go when you _don't_ want to be found, usually. Most of the time you're not, or they eventually find your body stuffed in a crate. Sometimes even with all the pieces attached."

" _Lovely._ "

He'd been down here before, on one of the manhunts from Varric's _jobs_. The only positive about Darktown, a cesspit of filth and crime as it was, was that the cartas and criminal gangs were everyday business here. It was little secret _where_ they were, because there was no need to hide. The Guard never even entered Darktown, he'd come to understand. It reminded him of the city watch in Denerim, preferring to put the Alienage to the torch rather than allowing any sickness within to spread.

Still, Darktown was worse. Here, the dregs of society wasted away in their own filth, a miasma of gut-turning dampness that clung to the ground like a fog. He didn't want to actually test if his Grey Warden resilience would protect him from this kind of manmade shit. Half the times he saw beggars or their ilk on the ground, it was only on closer inspection that he realized them to be corpses. Starvation, sickness or a knife in the gut, Darktown was a place more for the dead than the living, seemed like.

He stopped them at a relatively clear intersection, the streets no longer mere corridors but actual mining shafts. The only people here were either drugged into oblivion or no longer drew breath. He'd expected looks of horror on the women's faces, but found instead something similar to how he'd reacted in the Alienage. It was the repulsion of familiarity, no great shock or surprise in those eyes, though Bethany seemed less able to carry on than her sister. He'd expected that much, at least; it was clear Jonah was the more streetwise of the two.

"Before we go any further." He said, glancing at the nearest druggie. Some kind of mushroom dangled from his drooling lips, his eyes glazed and unseeing; "Varric said you didn't need payment for this, 'least not from me."

"Bigger jobs usually come with coin, but this is Darktown. Coin's where the work's at." Jonah said.

"She means we typically take whatever's on the bodies." Bethany supplied, though he'd guessed as much. He wasn't really surprised, honest. It did however imply neither of them were strangers to killing. He supposed he shouldn't have expected anything less, though Bethany in particular seemed to bear an unspoiled innocence about her. A mask, or was she like Brelyna? _Maker fuck me if she's like Brelyna..._

"Already killed 'em, loot's ours by right." Jonah shrugged; "Finders' keepers, right?"

"I take it that's par for the course with you two..." he muttered; "You get your coin from the bodies then. Fine, that's out of the way. Your staves, you've been walking around with those in the open like that all the time?"

"Kirkwall's a dangerous place." Bethany said.

"Literally you're getting' jumped 'round every corner." Jonah supplied. Daveth scoffed; "And the Templars almost never leave Hightown or the Gallows. Lowtown's got the occasional one, but Darktown's not had a Templar in all the time we've been here."

"And what if a Templar does show up? Or you move around in Hightown?"

"Hightown?" Jonah scoffed, the sound not unlike what he'd made; "That'd be the day."

"A house of our own in Lowtown, out of Uncle's house." Bethany muttered.

"But you don't actually need staves to use magic." Because by the Maker, Talia hadn't needed one. Even before she got that staff in Redcliffe she'd been absolutely fuckin' terrifying. A force of nature with the kind of unrestricted firepower she'd throw around. He knew enough about Circle mages - especially after Cíada joined them for a spell - to know fireballs wasn't exactly for the novice mages, but she was throwing them around like Morrigan had those glowing bolts. If anything, the staff only made her cockier, not necessarily more powerful. That was all her, not an ornate twig; "Or what?"

Jonah gave him an odd look.

"Why'd you even care if we're caught?"

"I don't." it was a harsh thing to say, and hindsight betrayed that he should have worded it better. Maker help him but he was trying to be friendly. Aedan was better at this shit, him or Alistair; "But it's still better if you're not. Especially if _I'm_ hauled in for associating with apostates."

Both Hawke's were quiet after that, though they bore wildly different expressions. Bethany seemed dismayed, maybe realizing something obvious like the fucking stupidity of carrying around a staff when you're an apostate in Kirkwall. Jonah, however, seemed more like she'd found a bothersome rash, and couldn't scratch it away.

"Look, I'm not tryin' to get on your bad sides 'ere." He tried; "But I can't afford the kinda shit that's gonna rain down if the Templars crash the party. I can't leave Kirkwall until my stuff's taken care of, and I'd rather not have every Templar in this place after my ass."

"I can't tell if that's an apology or not." Jonah grinned.

"I don't think it is." Bethany said.

"It's not." He said; "Kinda. I've worked with mages before, I know you're fuckin' terrifying, staffs or not. I'm just tryin' to take some precautions 'ere. Kirkwall's your place, not mine. You think the Templars are too dumb to figure you out, I'll try 'n trust your judgement."

"You've worked with mages before?" Jonah noted.

"Are you a sellsword of some kind?" Bethany asked.

Daveth turned back to the corridors ahead. He knew enough to tell where they were going, where the _salesman_ frequented. They'd start there, and then work their way out from it if he wasn't there. Was he a sellsword at this point? He wasn't doing this for coin, but he was pretty sure Duncan would have tanned his hide for jumping ship like a damned rat soon as the Blight was done with, for sure. Could he then still call himself a Grey Warden? The vial of darkspawn blood pressed against his chest underneath his shirt, and the griffon-marked steel armguards under the sleeves of his coat said that, yes, he could. But honestly, he wasn't sure if he believed them all that much these days. He turned about, just enough that his eye caught Bethany's.

"...not exactly a sellsword, no." he sighed, scratching at his hair; "It's been a while since I worked with people who weren't...like me. I'm not actually trying to be an ass, just comes naturally, see?"

"Oh, there's _definitely_ a story there." Jonah grinned, hefting her staff. A blade jutted from one end, visibly tied onto the wood with excessive amounts of rope. If a guard asked, he supposed she could say it was a spear. So, maybe not as foolish as he'd first thought; "Figures the most mysterious man in Kirkwall's our countryman."

"Hawke, I'm about the most mundane bastard you're ever gonna meet." He tried smiling, if nothing else than to clear the air, stale, foggy and cloying as it was. Maker's Breath, places like these made the Alienage seem goddamn pristine. All the same, his fingers danced beneath his cloak to where the crossbow dangled from his hip, next to the curved steel. Warden or not, better to be armed than unarmed if some druggy with a shiv jumped from the shadows.

"You're a Fereldan who's come across the goddamn sea to hunt slavers." She pointed out.

"And Kirkwall is not exactly as friendly a place as it has been." Bethany added; "A Fereldan could do better."

"Definitely." Her sister supplied; "You're just about as far from mundane as they come, I think."

"So, what, you're all curious now?" Daveth watched her from the corner of his eye, keeping instead a watch on their surroundings. They were getting close now, and the druggies were thinning, living and dead both. Someone was either keeping order here, or scaring even the shroom-dazed snorters off; "We're getting closer."

"I suppose I am." Hawke shrugged, a skip in her step that contrasted starkly with the grimness of their surroundings; "Way you carry on, can't really blame me, can you? After this, drinks at the Hanged Man."

" _Sister_." Bethany hissed, clearing her throat before she spoke again. Daveth, meanwhile, had stopped to examine a manhole. The thick iron grating was worn more than the rest, and the stench from beneath wasn't as bad. This was place used, and not for sewage; "So...how exactly do you know where we're going?"

"Tell you the truth, I don't." he huffed, hauling the squeaking iron up. He waved a scrap of brown parchment at them, one he'd been occasionally keeping track of as they went; "Varric gave me a rough sketch of the area, told me to look for some _hidden entrance_."

" _He did mention something like that..."_ Bethany whispered to her sister, likely meant to be low enough that he wouldn't hear. Bitch about Grey Wardens though, they usually did anyway.

"That'd be why you're breaking into the sewers?" Jonah asked.

"Pretty much." Daveth kicked the grating against the wall, waiting for the echo to dissipate before he knelt by the hole; "Darktown's a shithole, so gotta assume anyone with power he'd want their place to be less shitty. Plus, there's no actual sewers in this place still working. Your dwarf said it's used as a network for those fuckers in the Carta."

"I didn't know the Carta dealt in slaves." Bethany said, watching the manhole with some apprehension.

"Far's I know, they don't." her sister shook her head; "But there's a first for everything."

"No, but they apparently share turf with the slave dealers." He jumped in, holding his breath and squaring his feet. Less than a second later, he hit dry ground. The sewer was more a regular tunnel than anything, and was lit far as the eye could see with lanterns in the ideal height for humans, not dwarves, emphasis on the _lit_ part; "We're in luck, it's dry and looks like someone's been through pretty recently."

"Maker's Breath..." he could hear Bethany exclaim from above.

"I hope not." Jonah muttered, her feet dangling into the sewer; "Cause if it is, we're following the wrong god."

* * *

 **Because you can literally walk around the Gallows and no one gives a damn about your staff. Dealing with all the bullshiz of Kirkwall is going to be the death of me...or at least several characters.**


	56. Warriors and Soldiers

" _Few are the warriors in Thedas whose arms and armor come at such prices as they do for the Chevaliers of Lydes. Their steel plate is dwarven made, enchanted heirlooms that shrug even the mightiest of blows. They ride to battle atop steeds of blood as noble as the steed that bore Andraste herself against Tevinter, though dressed in plate and barding by human hands, not of dwarves._

 _For each House favors different smiths, and so each strikes its own semblance, recognizable by those who doth know where to look. Not only is the plate they wear cherished through generations, but so are the arms they bear. For like their plate, many a piece are dwarven-wrought, and on them spells of foe-bane and ruin lie- Woe onto us, to fair Ferelden, should they come again."_

– _Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar, 'On the Knightly Orders of Orlais'._

* * *

 **Faith, Steel and Blackpowder**

* * *

Through the hellish noise of battle, for a mere moment's time, a whistle's scream cut through and made itself known. Then it was gone again, but close enough to the base of the hill, where the shattered remains of the outer palisade gates still lay, the whistle's owner accompanied its scream with commands.

"FIRST RANK! SHIFT!"

Lucius Sevilius stepped to the side as the ranks began to cycle, his own men mixing with those of the Second. They had already been fighting for hours now, and he couldn't tell if the darkening skies was the smoke from fire and flaming magicks, or if the sun had started to set. The air itself had taken on an almost orange hue, and stung his throat whenever he breathed. He was tired, sweating and panting with an exhaustion that should not already have set in. Many of the men suffered worse, and the line of bodies on the path had near doubled in length since the start of the battle, each sporting wounds more grievous than those who'd come before them. Rhain Rengost, the Second's Centurion, was leading them from closer to the front, providing inspiration and guidance. It was more than Lucius could do, they'd both acknowledged.

When the first rank reached the rear, some of the men collapsed. The worst of them cried, tears dragging clean lines through the soot and the dirt smeared across their faces. All as one they were splattered in blood, mostly not of their own. It was a nightmarish hellscape mere meters away, when madmen and fanatics threw themselves at the tiring Legionaries, uncaring for death or pain. He hid away in his duty, Lucius receding as the Centurion instead emerged, taking his place.

"On your feet!" he bellowed, swinging his command stick at those who couldn't get clear of the formation fast enough; "ON YOUR FEET, BY STENDARR!"

He could afford no weakness here, not now. None of them could, no matter the cruelty. He physically grabbed and hauled to his feet one of the slumped Legionaries. The man was bleeding from a cut above his eyes, a sharp dent in his helmet betraying where an axe had just made it through. His eyes were unfocused, and his posture wavering like a drunkard. A concussion, at best. Wordlessly he sent the man to the back, where others too wounded to quickly resume the fight were resting. They would only impede the formation, and he'd rather have a thinner wall of men than a thicker one unstable on its feet.

There was starting to be a disquieting crowd there, of men who could no longer see, or were now a limb short. The fanatics took what chances they could, it seemed, desperate to kill even if it killed themselves in return. Stone-faced, he turned to the fighting once more. The showers of incoming death had lessened, if only somewhat, but in turn so had the barking of their own cannons. He didn't know if it was a good or bad sign, and willed himself to ignore it altogether. His role was here, right here in the thick of it. There was no use in him trying to discern the ongoings of the entire battle, and no Saint about to vault the lines and butcher their foes.

It was the old-fashioned way, just as it had been at the Red Ring. With the skies on fire, the ground soaked in blood and the screams of men deafened only by the overwhelming noise of steel on steel. At least, if anything, it seemed the Orlesian mages had run out of juice, or simply run out. No longer were men incinerated around him, and what flames licked the ground were hours old, he was pretty sure. Mars stood at the other side of the formation, in the rear as well, and kept the banner high. The men would find inspiration in its presence, and weary hearts would harden. It was needed too, for the uncaring fanaticism of the foe was something any soldier would shirk from, no matter their veterancy. He felt the same, but did not show it.

For all of the Orlesian bloodlust, however, far as he could tell the lines were holding. The foot soldiers of their enemy were no match against the drilled and hardened Legionaries, and even the crazed fanatics had not yet broken his men. Their advantage was in numbers, and he thanked the gods for that small blessing. If it had been anything but numbers, if it had been in quality or in magicks…he didn't wish to imagine it, but knew the Legion would have been overrun. They excelled at this, though, no matter how terrifying and nightmarish it seemed.

The Legion always beat the numbers.

But only when it came down to the numbers. He was under no illusions, that the men around him, bleeding and groaning, crying and clutching wounds, were some breed of superhuman soldiers. They were people, mortal and weak like himself, with only the strength found in their training and their discipline. One on one, they were no better than the screaming fanatics still throwing themselves at their lines, ripping and tearing like wild beasts. They would even pull at the steel-rimmed kiteshields of the Legionaries, others hacking and stabbing wherever they perceived an opening.

Something new appeared on the edge of his vision, at first little more than an unexpected colour in the throng of raving zealots. He almost ignored it, rather to focus on keeping his men in line. Centurion Rengost was still at the front when the fighting quieted down. The zealots had suddenly ceased their screams and their chants, as if stricken with terror or awe beyond fear of death itself.

He turned to watch.

The madmen had parted, like the sea when rocks sprung from the darkest waters. Amidst them now appeared dozens of men, unlike their comrades entirely. These stood a head taller than the common man, like Nords in build if he had to wager. From toes to crown they were clad in ornate steel, fine plate suited as if to the tiniest curve and shape, perfectly forged. _Big men in fancy armor…_

He recalled the Immunes comments, made in ignorance and yet by the damned Daedra they were true. Chevaliers. These were _Chevaliers_ , and even though on foot he couldn't deny they inspired a sense of awe. They weren't soldiers, at all, he could tell at a single glance. They bore shields, kite shields and bucklers and other kinds, each sporting a different insignia and heraldry. Each was a declaration of his own status, not of his liege or land. They were warriors, and powerfully built at that.

In the pause, the Legionaries shifted their lines, on Rengost's muttered commands rather than his own.

"I am Guy de Lydes!" the leader bellowed, a massive mace resting in his grasp. It was a _mornstern_ , a weapon that could crush a man in plate with a single strike, and it looked to be enchanted too, its head glowing a dimmed yellow in the red night. The steel ball looked as large as Lucius' head, and too heavy by far for him to wield. The Chevalier's face was obscured, a metal mask of wrath covering it with only holes for the eyes and mouth. He gestured at the Chevaliers around him, all likewise armored and armed; "And these are my kinsmen and comrades. Pray to your pagan gods now, heathens. We shall send you to them shortly."

"Begone, crazed zealots!" Rengost bellowed, weariness and anger fueling his voice; "Go home and fuck your horses, better than die a dog's death here!"

"The only dog's death here is yours, _heathen_!" the Chevalier declared joyously, leveling his mace at the Centurion; "I shall personally introduce you to it."

The Legion didn't care about his declarations. Only that his and his comrade's arrival had for some reason made the fanatics retreat, in reverence more likely than any strategy. It gave the Legionaries time to reform, to shift out those too wounded to fight or simply too tired, and have fresher men take their places. Lucius only wished the handcannons above were still barking, he'd have preferred them ripping the Chevaliers apart rather than his men having to do it. _None of us have hammers or maces, how do we break that armor?_

They weren't blessed with time, either. He'd barely formed the thoughts before the Chevaliers began their charge. He'd never served with Orcs, but he imagined...this was probably what it felt like.

"HOLD FIRM!" Rengost bellowed, only the top of his crest visible from Lucius' position. He was right in the center too, up front, that damned idiot. He was _right_ in front of the charging Chevalier! "HOLD FI-!"

When the mornstern was brought to bear, his dread of its enchantments was proven truer than he'd dared to fear. Rengost and the man to his left were torn from where they stood, scattered through the air in an explosion of blood, steel and gore. Lucius felt his insides freeze over at the sight, even before the pieces started dropping, smacking wetly against his helm and shoulders.

"HOLD FORMATION!" he roared, tasting blood as it dripped in his open mouth; "HOLD FORMATION!"

What else could they do? He wanted to withdraw, to get his men away from these brutes, but he knew what would happen if he did. If they withdrew here, without coordinating it with the rest of the line, they'd open up a hole ready for the Orlesians to wreck, and roll up the rest of the battle line in what would be little but a massacre.

The Legion wouldn't break, but it'd be slaughtered all the same. _What the fuck do I do? Rengost..._ It was an uncomfortable realization, that he was now in command of the most heavily contested section of the battleline, a responsibility more easily shouldered when shared with the now sundered Centurion.

"PIKES!"

He had to think of something, anything, now. Even if the men held, even if they stood their ground in the face of foes wearing armor they could not get through, with weapons that would smash them to pieces, they were fighting on borrowed time. Making matters worse, most of the pikes had been shattered and broken, snapped under falling bodies or hacked apart by the maddened zealots. Barely enough remained in the hands of capable men to form a single line across the path, let alone enough to make it an effective hedge of lethal steel.

"Do not expose yourselves to them!" he ordered the assembled men, weary and sweating, but capable and stoic; "Go for _anything_ that might be a gap in their armor, but keep at least two ranks between you and those bastards. GET ME MAGES!"

* * *

It was a pretty secluded place, the warehouse. Highever's docks were full of them, or rather they had been. The Chantry had done its damnest to put the lot of them to the torch, resulting in an entire street of ruined and burnt out husks, with barely any timber frames remaining. Talia had managed to find one that was only halfway torched, with the acrid smell of smoke still clinging to everything and everywhere within. The roof was gone, completely, with the upper floor covered in shattered tiles as a result.

Honestly, it was a pretty sad sight, all things considered.

"Gonna open it now?" Aedan prodded from his seat on an empty crate, his shirt back on. Brelyna had dragged up an only somewhat singed bench, the wood stained black from soot but otherwise unharmed. Talia, however, found it hard to actually take a seat. The document in her hands, such an innocent-looking scroll, was making her way too damn fidgety for it; "You're going to rip it to pieces the way you keep at it, you know."

"Quiet you, it's..." again, she looked at the seal. That damnable red wax seal of the _Legio_ _Draconis_. Whatever was inside, it was bound to be some serious shit. The Legion didn't just contact people, least of all _her_ kind of people, unless something was up. And she was pretty anxious that whatever the _something_ was, it was going to ruin her plans of a peaceful retirement; "It's pretty scary."

"Isn't it from the General, though?" he asked.

"Probably, yeah."

"...isn't he, you know, well disposed towards you?"

"I _know_." She wasn't pouting, but damn it did she want to; "But this is like...what if it's a request that I go somewhere far or do something dangerous? Or if someone's died?"

"...as a Noble, you _can_ just turn him down." Brelyna mused, her red eyes more on the scroll than the woman holding it; "And if someone important had died, likely your father or mother would have made contact."

"Yours too now, technically." Talia reminded her. The whole adoption thing was a pretty gradual process, and she wasn't entirely clear on when exactly it had crossed the boundary where Brelyna could now call Rhea Aulus _mom_. Well, _mother_ , more likely, but still; "And I _know_."

"Then?" Aedan prodded. She gave him an annoyed glare, but sighed and relented.

Because damn it they were right, if this was something about someone she knew, then she'd already have known. And if it was anything else, she _could_ decline. The fact that she found the notion of snubbing General Belisarius a _scary_ one was something she kept to herself. Pride, however, forbade her from putting that to words, and instead she carefully broke the seal off the scroll, gently so that the red wax itself didn't break. First times for everything, and no way was she breaking the first _Legio Draconis_ seal she'd ever received.

It was like meeting Aveline the Red-Hot Tempest in person, only...somewhat more plausible, given the other had been dead for centuries. She snorted at the thought, realizing such a meeting would probably leave her little but a ranting fangirl. _Didn't the Hero of Kvatch have ranting fans as well?_

"So, what's it say?" her husband asked, leaning forward on his crate. Talia blinked, having not yet started reading.

"It's..." she frowned in the dim light. Apparently, she couldn't _read_ in low light, much as she could otherwise see just fine; _"Esteemed Lady Talia Aulus Cousland...It is with great relief that I hear of your endurance throughout the trials of recent weeks..."_

"Aulus Cousland?" Brelyna mused, a smile playing on the corner of her lips.

"Covering his bases, presumably." Aedan shrugged.

"Probably." The Dunmer nodded; "I'm myself not wholly clear on which family has the more power, Cousland or Aulus. Politically, that is."

"Shush, children..." Talia muttered, though she couldn't help the smirk when she thought of the General trying to decipher which family held the greater importance. It was actually pretty funny " _...as you are well aware, the Legion has been stretched thinly in the efforts of protecting Ferelden both within and without, and the recent Darkspawn resurgence in Amaranthine was a clear consequence of our failings in upholding the mandate."_

"He's awfully apologetic..." Aedan noted.

"He's just buttering me up, there's a request below, just you wait..." she said, annoyed though at least it meant nothing outright _bad_ had happened. Probably; " _Your efforts, and those of your companions, have thus been viewed with great appreciation from both myself and those ab...above..."_

"Above?" Brelyna frowned; " _Above_ the General?"

"Who'd be above the General?" Aedan asked.

"That's...uhm..." Talia could have curled in on herself and died right there, and not even out of shame. _Above_ the General? That was an _awfully_ short list of people; "It's...it's probably just a saying. It's not like..." she was not so naïve nor idealistic to think people in the Imperial Court had actually taken notice of her. The bureaucrats might have noted her down simply because of the amount of dead Darkspawn, at best; " _As such, due to recent events surrounding the Orlesian incursion, it has come to my attention that you seek a cure for the taint which made you and others into Grey Wardens."_

For almost a full minute, silence reigned supreme.

"...how does he know about that?" Aedan's voice was quiet, and she couldn't tell which part he was questioning. She didn't even know herself how the General knew either part, of the taint or her desire to cure it from her body completely, and from her husband's.

"And why does he bring it up with the Orlesians?" Brelyna leaned forward; "What else?"

" _In cleansing the Darkspawn threat from Amaranthine, you took significant pressure from my forces in the area. As such, I would like to offer you and yours something in kind. Find me in Denerim, and I can in person disclose fully the nature of my offer. It is, admittedly, not entirely without strings attached, but I believe you will find it well worth the journey."_

"...and then there's a signature I think reads ' _Belisarius'_..."

The room was left in silence after that, with Aedan wearing the deepest frown of them all. Talia was, briefly, unable to entirely process the message. How had the General known about how Grey Wardens were made, and how did he know she was trying to cure it?

How did he know?

"He did not wish to disclose what exactly he was offering." Brelyna noted; "Though he brought up the Orlesians. Did _they_ find something, and he managed to get it out of some captured officer?"

"If Orlais found a cure..." Aedan hesitated, almost; "I can't say if they'd share it. The Grey Wardens in Orlais are usually drawn from the prisons and stockades. If there's a way out, I don't think they would be keen on making it known."

"That...somewhat takes the shine off." Talia muttered.

"Wasn't that how Daveth was recruited, though?" Brelyna asked.

"Blight Conscription. Different thing entirely." He shrugged; "I think. Pretty sure it is."

"Ethics aside..." the Dunmer gathered her hands, red eyes meeting green; "What are you going to do about this?"

What indeed?

"Simplest thing would be to do it, go meet the General." Talia fingered her chin in thought; "It's not every day you get a chance like this, or an offer from a General like Belisarius. My father seemed to like him, by reputation at least, I think. Reason enough to be wary of offending him."

"He could have timed it better, though." Her husband muttered; "Most of Highever's household troops are still recovering from the raid. We have..." he paused, counting on his fingers; "...four knights, that could be relied on for it."

"Ser Gilmore?" Brelyna asked; "How is his head?"

"Coming along, great thanks to your healing." Aedan shook his head then; "But I don't want him on a horse, not yet."

"Oh."

Talia found her dejected reaction a little funny. Brelyna was a lot of things, but she'd never quite figured out to hide her emotions. Even with all her flaws, it was an endearing trait. Still, she wasn't exactly keen on a journey to Denerim these days. Riding was starting to become something of an awkward thing, with her belly getting in the way of the saddle's front, and she refused to ride sideways, like the noblewomen of Daggerfall did.

At the same time, requesting a carriage would make her feel like a pampered brat, even if she knew, rationally, that it wouldn't be an unreasonable thing to do. If a backwaters province like Skyrim had carriage services going between the hold capitals, the second-richest domain in Ferelden ought have something similar. _And if it doesn't, I'll fund the damn thing myself._

"So, we _are_ leaving then?" Aedan pressed her from such thoughts, hands folded beneath his chin; "It doesn't say _when_ he would want us in Denerim?"

"Not outright..." she peered at the letters again, as if some extra details would emerge from reading the same words over twice; "But the way he put it, sounds like whatever he wants to offer is something he has right now. And if we wait too long..." she bit her cheek there, realizing she had already decided to go. Damn it all, but she was thinking back to her chat with Mother Mallol now, about wanting to kick back and take a breather. _Apparently, that's not allowed..._

"He might take offense..." Aedan summed it up well enough, and she nodded. Her husband sighed and straightened his posture, rubbing his neck like he'd been stung, then eyed them both with eyes that spoke of resignation to yet more politics; "I'm the one in the dark here, when it comes to your Legion. What do you think we should do?"

"We should give him an answer, first thing." Brelyna stated.

"Sending a letter would at the very least confirm that we've received his message. Even if it was a dismissal, at least it wouldn't slight him near as much as being outright ignored." Talia said, half-explaining it to both her husband and herself; "Replying positively, that we...that I am interested, would give some leeway to the exact date. The sooner the better, I think..."

"You worry the offer might expire." Aedan said, not entirely beyond a question. Talia shook her head, a slight smile spreading on her lips as she instead of answering simply tapped her fingers on her protruding abdomen. He actually grinned, scratching his scalp like a chided child; "...right, that too."

* * *

"You're leaving again?" Eleanor exclaimed, though the surprise hadn't stopped her from ordering the servants around the sitting room, replacing the heavy, red curtains with ones of lighter green. Heavy all the same, thick linen weighing more than one person could carry; "But you only just came back. _Aedan_ , what is this now?"

The Teyrna clearly didn't approve.

"It's like Talia said." to his credit, he didn't wither under his mother's disapproving stare; "It's an invitation."

"Technically more of a potential exchange of favors, with his to me already guaranteed." Talia added, when it was clear her mother-in-law still didn't approve. She hadn't really expected her to, either. Eleanor was too much like herself, in that regard, a fan of settling down rather than running all over the damn place, doing errands and odd jobs and the occasional pest-control; "We're not leaving right away, either. And we'd be back soon."

"Dear, your last journey to Denerim ended up lasting a near two months." Oh, yeah. There was that too, she supposed. Eleanor wasn't a vindictive woman, but she knew how to wield guilt, and when to drive it in; "And you only came back here _after_ risking your lives against _another_ horde of Darkspawn."

"Well, it _is_ in the job description."

"I was of the understanding you didn't much like the job." Eleanor said, crossing her arms as servants flittered about. Talia wasn't even entirely sure if they'd stumbled onto some late spring cleaning, or if it was just something Teyrnas – or Eleanors – did.

"I don't." she said; "It's a horrible mess of a lifestyle, and outside of Blights there's nothing to do but kill the odd Darkspawn. And the army did that just fine before Ostagar."

"And General Belisarius might have something that could help... _release_ us, from the whole thing." Aedan chimed in, and she could have kissed him right there if it wouldn't have been telling; "At least, he said as much."

"And can we trust him, this Belisarius?" Eleanor turned her eyes back on her, and there some doubt in them. Talia wasn't deaf to Eleanor using _'we'_ instead of you, either. Whether it was deliberate or not, she appreciated her mother-in-law caring; "I've not had much interaction with the Legion, Talia. You know these things better than I, to my frustration. Is he an honorable man?"

Was he? What annoyed her was that it was actually something she had to ponder, and it betrayed that she was starting to feel loyalty towards both the Empire _and_ Ferelden. And she didn't know the General beyond his loyalty to the Empire. So, was he honorable?

"I'd say so." She finally answered, certainty filling her as she spoke; "He's been willing to give the lives of his men in defense of Ferelden, and he's not given me reason to doubt his intentions. Besides, it's not like I'd be _bound_ to do anything for him."

"Meaning?"

"Legion officers, no matter their rank, are disallowed from issuing orders to nobility unless enlisted as regular or auxiliary forces." Talia shrugged; "I'd have to be _in_ the Legion for him to do any more than ask, and I can turn him down."

She left it unsaid that, should he for some reason have the Emperor's mandate on requesting her assistance in something, there'd be damned little she could do but nod and obey. Failing to do so...she didn't really want to think about it. No sane noble who valued their standing would outright disobey the Emperor.

She could see the Dunmeri nobles do it, definitely. They were edging closer and closer to outright independence from the Empire these days. _Brelyna's birthparents too...they're Telvanni, they'd be the type to try._

Not like she was going to say that to her though. For all their faults, she knew Brelyna still loved them, in a sort of distant way. They had just ceased to be family, and more like... _relatives_ , maybe? It was a difficult thing to figure out, and probably best left entirely alone. Eleanor watched her, she realized, maybe pondering ways she could be wrong.

"If you are certain of this..." the Teyrna finally sighed; "But know that I do not like it. All this travelling cannot be safe, or healthy for the baby." Talia was about to speak, but Eleanor continued before she had the chance; "And this time, you _will_ return the way you went, without delays or detours. We're behind on the annual tithe as it is. Having you depart in the middle of it all makes it no easier."

"Tithe?" Brelyna spoke now for the first time; "Not taxes?"

"I suppose it is not too dissimilar." Eleanor smiled at the Dunmer. Actually, that was another thing to consider, sometime later. If Brelyna was now technically her _sister_ , that meant she and Eleanor were now technically related too, by marriage that is. Or, by blood? "As the Teyrnir, we're responsible for collecting the taxes of our Bannorns and Arlings, Amaranthine being the richest by far. Highever adds its own wealth to the tithe, before sending it to Denerim. It's usually a substantial wagon train, all things together..."

"The Blight likely means it will be somewhat diminished this year, then." Aedan noted.

"It will." His mother sighed; "Many of the southern Bannorns were wiped out entirely, even if their citizens managed to evacuate before the Darkspawn hit them. Several wagons have already arrived from the ones that were spared, many half-empty."

"Can we take one, then?" he continued, and despite herself Talia was caught between embarrassment and appreciation, understanding his intentions; "We could pile the contents into fewer wagons, and riding a wagon will be easier on Talia than a saddle."

"You really don't have to..."

"Agreed." Eleanor cut her off, for some reason her mood had lightened at the suggestion. The Teyrna dusted off her front, as if it had collected any dirt at all, wandering to one of the windows. Below, outside, was the courtyard, where the household troops were drilling. If Gilmore was among them, Talia couldn't see him; "Of course, it will require some furnishing. They're...fairly simple, and not overly comfortable. I'll have the servants fasten a canvas over it, should it rain, and line the floor with rugs and cushions..."

"It's really not necessary with that much..." Talia tried, knowing somehow that the effort was a wasted one; "Just that I can sit rather than ride is fine, it is."

"Nonsense."

"But you're already so busy-"

"Talia, you _will_ ride in a cushioned wagon, or Maker help me I _will_ tie you to it." Eleanor held up a hand, her expression softening into a fond smile; "My Dear, it is no trouble. In truth I'd be more troubled were you not to travel in comfort. I remember well the inconveniences of pregnancy, believe me. It only becomes more of a hazzle by the week. By the time you're coming back north, you'll appreciate this."

It wasn't the first time she'd hugged the Teyrna in view of others, but somehow it still took the older woman by surprise.

"At this rate, I'll never have a normal life." she giggled; "I even have to get a mother-in-law I actually _like_."

"Oh my, well..." the older woman blushed, tentatively returning the embrace; "I suppose there has to be an exception to all rules."

Talia grinned, hugging the Teyrna just a little longer before she was willing to let go. Damn it all, she'd really drawn the longest straw on Aedan, hadn't she? There wasn't a tear in her eye, it just...itched, a little, and she scratched it away.

"You're _great_ , Eleanor."

"Well, _naturally_." Eleanor wore a grin of her own, turning to Aedan; "To think you had to marry for me to finally get the proper recognition."

"Doesn't Anora _adore_ you?" he asked, his tone flat and unamused.

"In _Highever_ , Aedan." She corrected him, though it almost sounded like admonishment; "Anora has plenty of work in Denerim, too much to come here for social visits." Eleanor's face scrounged up, as if something only suddenly now occurred to her; "Oh my, that's...you haven't heard yet..."

"Heard?" Aedan asked, a slight note of concern in his voice. His mother's face brightened as she picked out a piece of parchment from her dress. Talia, however, focused more on the small tear that had formed in Eleanor's left eye. It was too stark a contrast to the smile on her face. Aedan had seen it too, taking the parchment offered; "What's this?"

"It's from Fergus." She said, turning to Talia even as her son ran his eyes across the letter; "You're going to be an aunt, Talia."

* * *

Fighting Chevaliers...it was something he hadn't looked forward to.

In truth, he'd outright prayed he wouldn't get to try it.

Compared to the fanatics, it was the difference between holding back a trickling stream, and trying to stem the Corbolo River with your _hands_. There were just two dozen of them now, but all as one they were clad in gleaming steel that seemed to make any strike _slip_ off, like grasping soap, and their weapons bore enchantments and spells of ruin, most like.

Watching them tearing through the first ranks was too stark a reminder of the Red Ring. Magic and enchantments made a mockery of the discipline of his men, as shimmering maces scattered Legionaries to the winds in showers of gore and wooden splinters, and shining swords cut apart men and metal like were they made from paper. Lucius was forced to watch as his men were being cut down and carved apart faster than they could take the places of their slaughtered comrades, a dread filling his guts.

This wasn't a fight they could win, not defensively at least.

"WHERE ARE THOSE MAGES?!" he bellowed again, loud enough that he hoped even if no runners were sent, the arcane assholes could hear him themselves. So far, none had come, and only the men with pikes had any real luck at staving off the Chevaliers, each a force of nature on his own. How had the Seventh bested these bastards in Ferelden? The feat seemed impossible, now that he could see them for himself; "GET A RUNNER TO THE SECOND LINE! WE NEED REINFORCEMENTS!"

Even with the pikes, the battle was a losing one. Everywhere along the front line, where the Chevaliers joined the fray, he could see the Legion pushed back, broken bodies sent tumbling through the air with force that was not meant for men to wield. Where was the vaunted blackpowder volley he had been promised, a weapon to best any armor? They had either wasted their shots on the fanatics, or they dared not fire into the melee. Either way, they were useless when it really counted.

The occasional shot was still taken, though, but it still struck only the fanatics, holding back from approaching the actual fighting. None of those forge-wrought slugs found their ways into the bodies of the Chevaliers, and he was starting to wonder if they even would. A Legionary ahead struck the helm of one of the Chevaliers with the pommel of his sword, one of the only real ways a sword _could_ combat armor, only for the strike to slide aside, useless against the shimmering surface of the Chevalier's steel skin. It looked like it didn't even _touch_ the man. _ENCHANTMENTS! Even their armor bears enchantments!_

The Legionary, however, was not blessed with such armor. The strike that came in turn buried his head halfway down his chest, and sent the corpse to the ground in a crumbled heap. Lucius felt a tooth crack at the sight, grinding his teeth in frustration. The men would not break, they would _not_ , but...this was a suicidal fight. The Legion was made up of soldiers, men trained to fight alongside one another, _with_ one another. They were _better_ than warriors who fought for themselves, and yet... _not_ , it seemed. _Whatever the General's planning, he'd better get on with it, or the line's about to break! What I wouldn't give for a Maniple of Orcs!_

Minute by minute, he saw the men straining worse and worse under the onslaught. There was no room for maneuvering, and he had nothing with which to maneuver anyway. Every man who could still stand on his feet and bear arms was ahead of him, pressed into the formation. It was a desperate gambit to hold the path, and right now it was a gambit he knew was lost. They hadn't killed a _single_ of the Chevaliers yet, while the Chevaliers were joyfully crushing and carving his men apart. They had no weapons on hand to break their armor, and any attempts at exploiting gabs were met with merciless violence. Those men who by some miracle survived being pounded into the ground, or flung through the air, found themselves instead set upon by the zealots trailing behind the Chevaliers.

It was a butchery, as one-sided as it had been against the ragged fanatics, only now the coin was flipped, and the Legionaries were the ones being cut down by the score. _I would sell myself for a Malakathii maniple!_

No matter what he would have given, it was clear there were no Orcs on the horizon. Only men, strong in spirit but weak in flesh. Discipline held them together, at this point it was about the only thing that did. He barely even heard the stomping of feet from up the hill 'fore they were close, and turned from the madness of the melee to find an incoming force of pikes from the second line. He'd prayed for a maniple of Orcs, but gotten one of men, at least. More uplifting though, was the sight of mages robes amongst them, though but a single man at that.

"ABOUT TIME!" there was relief and anger both in his words as he met the reinforcements. Relief, that they had come at all, and anger that they had taken so long to send so little. A maniple wouldn't turn the tide, nor a single mage; "BATTLEMAGE! Spring up a wall of fire between our forces and theirs! Hold it for as long as possible! The rest of you, form up for a pike wall! Keep those shafts up until the men are through!"

His orders were heeded, the mage working his spells even as he yet bellowed at the pikemen. Lucius spared himself only enough time to breathe before he grasped the whistle dangling from his neck. With a final gesture, the mage thrusted upwards his hands, and a hedge at first and then at last a wall of flame arose, tall as a man, and split the Legionaries from the main force of Orlesians.

He blew the whistle then, two sharp blows. The men knew what it meant.

There was grim satisfaction in watching as two of the Chevaliers had not sensed the mounting spell in time, and were consumed in the arcane flames that cared little for how many blows their armor could shrug aside. They screamed like any other, no more noble in death than the fanatics that had come before them.

Adding to his glee was the renewed cracks of blackpowder fire from above. Separated from the Legionaries now, the Chevaliers found themselves the prey of the handcannoneers above. Iron slugs smacked against their armor, and though most were brushed aside by the enchanted steel, some yet punched through and inflicted wounds no warhammer could have. _Thank the gods for blackpowder!_

Lucius was last in line as the men stomped back behind the still raised pikes, though it was not for being slow. He dragged with him the ruined body of Centurion Rengost, at least what was left of him. Though a seasoned veteran, he still did his best not to glance at the dead man's abdomen, where a mashed mess of ruined entrails and blood hadn't yet begun to dry, nor at where his legs had once been attached.

" _PIKES_!" he roared, even as he passed the first of the fresh men. One-hundred and twenty men held filled the eight meters of path with rows of sharpened steel. No sooner had he given the order than the mage abandoned his spell, seeking his own refuge on higher ground; "BRACE!"

* * *

 **A/N: Aye, contrary to what the Elder Scrolls would have us believe (Dragon Age too, for that matter), swords aren't too great against armor. Sorry, Dragonborn/HoF/Hawke, but you can't just jam a sword through a solid-steel chest plate, no matter your experience level.**

 **Technically, the Legion** _ **is**_ **trained on the handling of all kinds of weapons, maces and warhammer included. Those, however, don't go overly well with formation fighting, like here, and are usually used in assaults rather than defensive battles. Someone in Imperial intelligence must have fucked up, if they thought Chevaliers couldn't just dismount and lay the pain on the men by foot.**


	57. A Red Dawn

**Goddammit large battles are hard to write...their endings even harder. How do you do something like that, and not sit back and wonder about the 11.000 ways it could have been better? Or made more sense? Seemed less conceited? Or forced?**

 **Worst part is, you could literally write down the exact events of historical battles, and they would still seem like it was the writer siding with one over the other. Like Cannae, the writer was obviously on Hannibal's side since otherwise the Romans wouldn't have fallen into the trap.**

 **Gah, at least I hope I did well here.**

* * *

 **A Red Dawn**

* * *

Within the command tent, what officers were not engaged had instead been called together, for a final session of planning.

"We can't wait for the Aviatorii."

The realization was a grim one, no less for it being his own. Tullus frowned and raked his beard, glaring at the map outlining the hillside and the plains below. Even a layman could tell the situation was bad, with just two single formation lines holding off a three formations thick mass of Orlesian squares, all along the hill.

"We knew that was the risk, General." Legate Tyrage sighed, her face a perpetual scowl; "Relying on them was a liability from the start."

"So you have said." Tullus muttered.

"Repeatedly." Legate Carigus added, rubbing his hands; "Well, no use crying over spilled milk, as they say. General?"

But the General was quiet for a moment, contemplating. The answer lay within the map, he knew. All the keys were there, right before him. Every available unit, ever cohort and maniple and specialist. Every piece of artillery and every mage. Immunes with pokers prodded occasionally at this or that block, as information streamed in from the battle below. Each time they moved something, it was a scrape of wood against fabric, and his spine coiled at the noise. He wanted to _break_ one of those damnable sticks.

"How's the artillery? Are they depleted?"

"The mortars report..." one of the Immunes drew up a board, with dozens of white streaks on black wood; "...thirty-two shells fired, per piece. Evenly distributed that's five shells left for the mortars each."

Shells, what a cruel concept. To stuff an iron ball to the brim with explosive powder and shrapnel, and hurl it from the skies like the wrath of a Divine. How he wished he had even more of them, or that they could be fired from cannons.

"Cannons?"

"Eight shots per piece, forced to cease when the enemy came within distance of our own forces..." again, a second went by as the Immunes performed a mental tally; "Twelve shots remain for each."

"That's enough, then..." Tullus muttered, eyes locked on the map. A plan was starting to take shape, though it was a reckless one, and risked the annihilation of the first line; "How many of our mages are still active? How's our magicka potions?"

"Sixty-two." Another Immunes spoke now, drawing upon a list with names crossed over by marker. He knew what they meant; "Most are currently tasked with healing, or engaged in combat with enemy mages. We are well stocked with potions, enough at least for one more for each remaining mage."

"Good enough." More and more, like a cloud, his thoughts coalesced into a fully fledged plan. This was how it was to be; "Withdraw every destruction-specialist up here, and stock them with what potions we have left. Haul the cannons to the edge of the hill and aim them at the melee. Same with the mortars, use magical guidance if need be. On the signal, the first line will conduct a complete withdrawal to the second line, under support of the mages. We will then spend what ammunition the artillery has left on the Orlesian front, and the second line will hit them then, like an avalanche. If there are humans amongst the Orlesians, they will break under such violence, and if the gods are with us, they will rout."

"And if they don't?" Tyrage asked, arms crossed. Tullus allowed himself a sardonic grin.

"Then we'll simply have to take long enough to die for the Aviatorii to show up and avenge us."

* * *

Legate Veruin waited.

He'd been waiting, and doing little else, for the past several hours. He didn't even know how many, but when they had come together into position, him and the cavalry force he was now at the head of, men he was to lead against superior knights, the skies had been clear and blue.

Now they were a dark red, a starless night lit only by the burning fires. The hill was aflame, and the horses were uneasy. Hannibal just as much as the rest, though the beast was a seasoned warhorse. Even he himself could not block the cloying stench of war, human flesh cooked by arcane fires and the shit and piss as men died in droves.

Orlais hadn't discovered them yet. By the grace of the gods or simple planning, the General had placed them well. On his signal, they would ride forth and strike Orlais in the rear and flanks, however and whatever kind of forces they might encounter.

But still, they would wait.

* * *

He wondered, what time was it now? It was a moonless night, no stars either, and he had started to wonder just how long the Orlesians could go on. How far could faith drive a man before he needed rest from the battle? The zealots might not even feel it, but the rest? How was continuous fighting for so long impacting the regular Orlesian soldiers?

"General, sir?" It was Vorenus, a frown of concern on what little of his face was visible in the dim torchlight. Clad in flexible plate and mail, only his eyes showed, framed by banded steel like an owl's. Though concealed within its scabbard, he knew the Captain's blade glowed coldly, the woven spells inlaid in the steel pleading for release; "The first line is straining. They _can't_ handle the Chevaliers in the melee, and their regulars are all but a match for the Legionaries."

"I know." Tullus muttered, running a hand through his beard; "I've been watching it for some time. They're tenacious bastards, those Orlesians."

"Fanatics, more like, Sir." The Evocatii Captain said. The man was not wrong, either. It was far from the norm to see melees lasting this long, after all. The usual drill was short engagements, until both sides realized the other wasn't going to rout, and then a disengagement to regain breath. Here though, neither side was giving, and neither was willing to disengage. The Orlesians because of faith and vengeance, and his own forces because they simply couldn't. The small, insignificant fact that Gaspard was still alive wasn't going to matter, not even if they forced the bugger on his feet and marched him down the hill. Men would fight and kill and die for the idea of their leader, but how many would stop, because a man who claimed to be their leader ordered them to? "But they're still outmatching our men. The casualties are climbing."

"Are the mages rested up?"

"The last of the potions are being handed out now." Vorenus nodded in the direction of the hill's center, where dozens of their battlemages were kneeling or seated on the ground, downing bottles of the blue liquids. He needed them at peak capacity, if this was going to work; "Field artillery has set up, too."

"Understood." Tullus nodded, drawing in air. It was heavy, and cloying, the acrid stench of burning wood and burning men, and the dying as they shat themselves. No matter the battlefield, they all smelled the same; "Your men understand the task before them?"

"We're ready, General." The Captain gave a short salute, keeping his fist against his breastplate; "We'll hit them in the front when the cavalry hit them in the rear. Hopefully."

"Very good." The bear of a man nodded, giving a final glance to the recovering mages. Many of them had exhausted themselves in literal firefights with their Orlesian counterparts, and remained only for having won. Those who hadn't were scattered across the hill, or charred to dust. He turned his eyes back to the carnage below. From where he stood, he could see the melee at the gates, or rather what was left of them; "The frontline was reinforced by the second?"

"Yes, General." Vorenus replied; "Centurion of the Sixth requested it."

"It's so bad the _reinforcements_ requested reinforcements?" a faint smile came to his lips, the irony of it all an amusing thing, though not really; "Tell the mages to get in position now."

Vorenus left without another word, and Tullus remained where he stood, arms crossed before him as he beheld the spectacle below. True, the Chevaliers had threatened his plans, for a while. When they had first entered the scene on foot, he hadn't been sure whether or not the men could hold them back for long enough. To his shame, he had underestimated the determination of his own men, his Legionaries. _The Legion does not break._

The old words held true, now and for all time.

The plan itself was simple - by his own standards -, as the best of them always were. Officers who had never seen the corpses stacked on the field of battle would ponder and contemplate, planning and scheming intricate maneuvers and feints. None of them understood how easily _everything_ could go wrong. Often, simpler was better, and his plan was so simple it bordered on the offensive.

He knew the hornblowers watched him, waiting for the signal.

He gave it to them then, a short, hard wave of his hand. It was followed by the claxon call of brass trumpets, several seconds of the uninterrupted warcry of the Numidium itself. For a moment, it almost seemed like the sound itself would cause the fighting below to cease. It wasn't so, and instead was only followed by the same dreary chaos of bloodshed as before. The skies spoke of no reinforcements, not in sight at least. If the Aviatorii _were_ coming... he knew that they would be, though not if they would be in time.

Aviatorii or not, it was time to bring this to an end.

* * *

"Keep them at bay! Don't even let a single one of them close in!"

Lucius halfway wondered how he still had a throat left to shout with. Blood filled his mouth with every breath, dirt- and ash tearing at his windpipe with every drag, every panted heave for air. The night was black and lit only by what fires yet flickered on the hillside, and the deathly gleam of enchanted steel. The Chevaliers had been halted, if only for now, by the dense rows of pikes poking and prodding at any who dared approach. Blackpowder fire, however sparse it now came, made it a gamble for any man to approach unshielded, and even then enough would eventually break both shield and plate, and then the man within.

So now instead they sent in those uncaring fanatics yet again, now rested from the break in the melee. They surged in, willingly goring themselves on pikes for the meagerest chance at gutting a Legionary, or dragged themselves further onto the long shafts to weigh them down and render them useless, or snapping them entirely. The Chevaliers, for all they were rumored and seen to be the fiercest of warriors, now instead used those very fanatics to shield themselves from the unfamiliar threat of iron slugs from the ramparts. Lucius felt his guts sour as he watched some hold up the battered corpses of their ragged zealots as shields.

"Centurions!" a voice bellowed from above. Lucius turned to crane his neck and gaze up, seeing one of the Legates atop the ramparts. He couldn't see _who_ , only the crest marking him out as such; "Prepare your men for withdrawal to the next line!"

"The heathens are fleeing!" he knew it was one of the Chevaliers who yelled it, frantic and enraged, whipping onwards the blood crazed zealots like hounds at the bear; " _PRESS ON, OH YOU FAITHFUL! PRESS ON IN ANDRASTE'S NAME!_ "

"PIKES HOLD!" Lucius bellowed, warm blood coloring broken lips; "THOSE NOT ENGAGED WILL BEAR THE WOUNDED TO THE NEXT LINE!"

"ONWARDS! ONWARDS!" the tone was near-hysterical, a scream of hateful indignation. He could see the Chevaliers well enough too, those that were still near the front. The pristine plate was dirtied and dented, bearing scars from where the iron slugs had slammed them down but failed to kill. They as well as threw their own kinsmen at the pikewall, even as bodies were torn asunder by the merciless, metallic rain; " _THE MAKER WA-!_ "

A slug shattered the protective enchantments on his helm, and caved the steel in like a fist through paper. Lucius watched him fall, the ragdoll body vanishing in the throngs of humanity as yet another corpse. The fanatics pressed on, but at least the insufferable ranting had come to an end.

It was then a horn sounded, loud and violent, like the angry call of a brass god. It stopped Lucius in his tracks, so loud and powerful was the noise that he could feel it in his teeth. What kind of horns had General Tullus brought with him? He did know the signal though, the long claxon call. _Retreat._

"PIKES!" he called, casting a glance back to see the wounded either limping up the hill, or being carried by those more fortunate. He returned his mind to his own duties then, casting once more his eyes on the foe before him. The order was to retreat, but if he commanded his men to turn about, they would be butchered 'fore they'd made it ten feet; "MAINTAIN FORMATION! BACKWARDS WALK!"

An orderly retreat was difficult to pull off on even ground, with swordsmen. Uphill, however, and with long and inelegant pikes? That was an order of magnitude harder. The men complied nonetheless, keeping their pikes leveled at the foe even as they began steadily withdrawing. Barely had they begun to move, though, before the ground they'd just now held _erupted_.

The blood-soaked soil cracked and broke upwards, spilling out geysers of flame twice as tall as a man. It brought the Orlesians to a halt in their pursuit, as scalding flame proved the better motivator. Looking about confirmed it, to see the same repeated as far down the line as he could see. And then, like a malevolent being, the barrier began a creeping advance on the halted Orlesians, like slowly running a comb across the hillside.

The horns sounded again, and the booming roars of blackpowder weapons followed suit. It wasn't from the handcannons.

"BACK TO THE SECOND LINE!" Lucius bellowed, bringing his stick to bear; "BACK! GET CLEAR!"

The men turned about then and there, turning the orderly retreat to a very much mundane one. Though they maintained order, it was a rush to get away from the battleground, with the rear getting familiar with their Centurion's command stick. The same scene repeated itself all along the front. Every Centurion who'd witnessed the opening salvos understood why staying put would be decidedly unhealthy. Lucius stole a glance behind them, seeing the Orlesians squabbling and panicking before the advancing flames, pushing back on those behind them. What bodies were thrown atop the fires were consumed faster than the next could follow.

There was no bridging such a barrier.

The men had made it maybe twenty meters up the hill by the time he could hear a whine in the air. At first he thought it his ears, damaged by the ceaseless screams and explosions. It was like the wind at sea, listening from the comfort of his hammock within the hull, a high-pitched scream that came from everywhere and nowhere at once. When he looked up, to the top of the hill, h could see the torchlit outlines of the cannons, all as one leaned on the crest of the hill, aimed downwards. But they hadn't fired yet. He knew already what weapons had fired, before the first shell struck ground behind the fiery walls. Packed as they were, the Orlesians were ripped to shreds wherever the mortars struck home, slaughtering by the bushel with every impact.

The second line had been spared much of the carnage from the Orlesian mages, though it still bore scars where boiling fire had turned men to ash. Lucius was the last to make it in, feeling almost comforted by the regular rows of palisade and entrenched field artillery. The archers and handcannoneers were spread along the trench here, quivers close to empty and faces black with soot. The area had been widened with terraces, and a field hospital here was already filling with the casualties of the first line. The comfort he'd felt dropped at the sheer number of bodies already lining the hillside, and how few of them yet moved.

Down below, the fiery walls began to wane. None but the insane would dare attempt a crossing yet, but it was clear for all they were not to last. How many mages did it take to cast such spells along the entire front? And how much did it take? Both questions had uncomfortable answers.

"Where's the Second's Centurion?" the voice was unfamiliar, and the question not directed at him. Still he looked for the source, and found it in the most unlikely of men. There were six of them, all dressed in the same scale, mail and plate, with not even their faces visible but for steel-rimmed gabs where their eyes could be seen. At their head was one of the Legates, though Lucius did not know the man. His face seemed unfit for a soldier, far too pretty and masterfully sculpted. The answer wasn't to his liking, though he was pointed Lucius' way; "You, Centurion Rengost?"

"...Dead." Lucius answered, wearily. It was a grim realization that he'd left the man's body behind; "Sevilius, Centurion of the Sixth..." his eyes unwillingly went to the field hospital, ever filling with the freshly wounded. He hadn't seen Mars yet, the banner bearer had vanished from his sight before the retreat; "...what's left of them, anyway."

"I see." The man's voice was warm, almost jovial. The rank couldn't quite break Lucius from his weariness, though he snapped a salute, which was returned. Even here, even now...these things held importance. It explained why he'd never seen those uniforms before, the Evocatii hadn't been on the ships, and neither had the Legate; "What is the status of the enemy?"

"Ragged zealots and...Chevaliers." he shook his head, exhaustion was taking its toll; "The former doesn't fear death at all, and the latter wield weapons that cleave through plate or... _break_ you. Rengost was struck with a mornstern, and it...blew him apart. They even have enchanted armor, so...we couldn't _touch_ them. Only keep them at bay, hope...for the handcannons to kill them, or the mages..."

The Legate placed a hand on his shoulder, and Lucius felt like the world grew warmer, less terrible. Like he was a child comforted by his father.

"Rest yourself and your men, Centurion. You've fought enough." Lucius nodded, slowly, trying to process the world; "Your men held the hardest melee on the line, you know? Requisition whatever you need from the quartermasters, Legate Carigus' authority if they're asking."

"Y-yes Sir." Once again, he smacked a fist to his cuirass, and found the leather came back wet with blood. It wasn't even his own; "What now, Sir?"

"Once the bombardment-" the Legate stopped when the cannons above gave fire, and flung their wrath into the disorganized rabble below. The Orlesians were still stumbling through craters and broken bodies by the time the first angrily glowing iron ball plowed through their midst, digging a furrow into soil and flesh, and watering it with the blood of its victims; "...ends, the second line will charge. The enemy is weary and bruised, their momentum ground to a halt."

"What of the Chevaliers, Sir?" Lucius asked. Even if they were exhausted, they still were as well as unstoppable; "We could barely even touch them."

"The fine men with me shall prove more than their match, Centurion." Legate Carigus smiled, gesturing a thumb at the imposingly clad Evocatii; "We shall drive them off this hill, and scatter them for the cavalry to trample. By Julianos it will be so."

The Centurion understood that to be the end of the conversation. He nodded, wearily, saluting a final time before he turned about. He needed to see how much of the Sixth yet remained.

* * *

When the cannonfire came to an end, the firewalls had well and truly dissipated. The barriers between the numerically superior Orlesian forces and the Legion were no more, though they had raked a steep toll in the Orlesians, from those unable to get away from its creeping advance. Bodies beyond counting, charred and burnt, had been left in its wake.

Strangely, this did not result in the Chevaliers leading a charge up the hill, with cries of righteous vengenace on their lips. Maybe it was because, though the ground no longer spat fire, the skies still did.

Legate Carigus Andal cut a striking figure as he stood, one foot atop the outermost rampart. Below him was the foe, behind him the Legion. The thunderous roars of cannon blasts yet echoed along the hill, shattering and breaking mind and body both of the foe, whilst instilling courage and belief in glorious victory in the Legionaries. The day was their already, all that was required now was for them to _seize_ it.

"My friends!" he called out, seeing the heads turning of the men in his section.

All along the second line, his peers were about to lead their own forces down into the fray, to butcher and vanquish. He had requested the gates, knowing this was where the most of the Chevaliers would be. It was where the melee had been the toughest for his kinsmen, where most of them had fallen. Even if he could scarcely _see_ them in the darkness. To the east there was a hue on the horizon, betraying the sunlight's coming. _If only we could have waited a mere hour yet, I could have charged the foe with the rising sun in my steps..._

"Below, like worms, the foe wriggles. Imperial might has seen their atrocious assault arrested! With the wind with us, we will win victory with valor, once we vanquish these vile villains!" laughter and cheers spread amongst the men, those who knew him well had expected his wordplay; "Shamelessly they sauntered in the Emperor's sight, seeking solace in the slaughter of his servants, by Stendarr such salacious stupidity! SHALL WE STORM SUCH SLIMEY, SLITHERING SNAKES?!"

" **Auh!** "

He had timed his words well, by Dibella. The last of the cannons belched flame even as the men gave voice to their determined anger. Carigus grinned, fastening the straps of his helm. His blade begged for blood, baying to brutalize and butcher. He would slake its thirst today, in the Emperor's name. His enemies would know, in their final moments, the folly of their frenzied furor.

The brass god bellowed.

"SONS OF TAMRIEL! KNIGHTS OF THE EMPEROR" he drew steel, holding the blade aloft in the hopes it might catch some light. When it didn't, the sword made its own, flames engulfing the blade in a _hiss_ as it sucked in air; "CHARGE!"

Despite his valorous warcry, what rolled down the hill was not so much a furious assault as it was the disciplined lockstep of the Legion. He knew he'd have been flogged if his section broke rank to rush headlong into glorious melee. Such recklessness did not find its home with his men, no matter how tempting it was to draw first blood.

The brass god bellowed again, two shorter calls this time. The smile on Carigus' face widened, his anticipation mounting as he recalled what it meant. _Two calls, time for the cavalry to show their merit._

* * *

"Two calls!" Veruin Kratorius slid his helmet in place as the second echo dissipated and no more came; "EQUITES! WITH ME!"

From the deep and broad trenches on the flanks of the hill, trenches deemed by Orlesian scouts to deter cavalry, the Legate of the Sixth was first out and into the open field. His guts churned at the sight before him, though he'd expected it from the many hours of constant bombardment from blackpowder and magic both. The green pastures were reduced to scorched ground, pockmarked with craters from fireballs and mortars, and furrows dug through the dirt by cannon shot. Hannibal strained under him to climb the last bit of steepness before they were out, and whipped its head about when new and strange sights assailed it. _Easy now, easy..._

It was not the plan to wait even for the last of the horses to have scaled the ditch. Veruin waved his blade at the skies, and kicked the warhorse into a slow gallop. Up ahead, he could see the Orlesian skirmishers. Archers and crossbows, from what he could tell, and the occasionally robed figure, though they were few and far in-between. There usually only remained one side standing in arcane slugging matches. Had the Legion's battlemages been found wanting? The notion was a harrowing one.

In his back now, the tip of the sun was edging its way over the horizon.

The Legion had lived to see the morning.

He hoped the Sixth had as well.

* * *

"Centurion! Centurion, come fast!" Lucius snapped about, his neck protesting the movement as he stood from the side of a wounded Legionary, scanning for the caller. It was, of all people, Mars, his banner bearer. At this point he'd come to think the man dead, yet there he stood, on the edge of the terrace, waving; "Come fast, it's starting!"

The haste he made for the Legionary was one he would later regret, he knew. His legs protested the exercise, though he pushed the discomfort aside. The younger soldier was still waving and gesturing until the very moment he was actually aside him, wordlessly peering down. There was no need to ask.

Below them, the second line was barely a moment's breath from making contact with the Orlesian main force. He couldn't clearly see what was going on, only that no clear lines and ranks were presented to face the oncoming Legionaries. It looked more like a disorganized rabble than the zealous front that had just minutes before been breaking through the Legion's shield walls, and the Legionaries themselves. Legate Carigus was, it seemed, determined for first blood, for he marched at the head of the section replacing the Second and Sixth, wielding a flaming blade as if it was a command stick.

It certainly cut an imposing figure, he'd admit.

Further below, on the plains themselves, he now understood what Mars had truly meant. Spilling out from both flanks, from where they must have been concealed, he could now see the Equites in their hundreds. The Legion's heavy cavalry thundered out across the scorched grass, lances and warhammers no doubt held ready for the Chevaliers no longer on horseback.

Instead they found the Orlesian skirmishers.

There were mages amongst them still, it would seem, for he could see in the low light of dawn as more than one streak of fire was scoured into the trampling horsemen, and saw just as well how little it did to halt their charge. The archers and crossbowmen fled, scattering like ants in every direction but from where the cavalry had suddenly appeared. He knew Saklya had too kind a heart to understand, but the sight pleased him.

Closer still, the second line had come upon the Orlesian infantry. Whether swallowed up by the throngs of battered regulars, or killed themselves by fire and iron, he couldn't see the Chevaliers. Legate Carigus was indeed first into the foe, and cleaved about with his blade as if there was naught but air about him. Still there _were_ Chevaliers about, and they made themselves known with the shattering of Legionaries that came against them. Even then, in the face of the steel tide they were swept away, and he could not tell if a blade somehow got through, or if they were simply tackled and trampled. The fanatics prevailed as long as they lived, selling themselves with weapon in hand rather than to flee.

He could have admired that in regular soldiers, but these were crazed zealots, and had butchered his men however they could. There was no pity in his heart for them, nor did it seem the case for his kinsmen as they came to the edge in their hundreds around him, cheering and hollering at the carnage below.

The outcome was not even in question, nor was the fight fair. The Legion struck downhill, fresh and prepared, against a foe that, thought superior in numbers and their equal in prowess, had been reduced by constant fighting and merciless bombardment.

The Legion hadn't broken.

But the Orlesians did, and it became obvious when the rear lines started spilling back down the hill, throwing arms and equipment to the ground as their rout became only more and more complete. The Legion would not be halted, its weight and momentum alone ensured it, and the foe stood on crumbling ground, on the bodies of their kinsmen. The moment the first Legionary broke all the way through their line, the foe abandoned the fight then and there. Even the Chevaliers, just before so assured of themselves, either died where they stood or followed their countrymen downhill.

Atop the hill, the Dragon banner was yet raised.

Any who surrendered were butchered where they stood, and on the plains below, the Equites were putting in the effort to see that any who made it down the hill were instead trampled into the broken dirt. Lucius remained quiet, silent in the face of such slaughter, even as the men around him cheered. He'd just finished his tally before Mars had called him over.

Eighty-seven.

That was how many of the Sixth's men that were still alive.


	58. Peace, in our time?

" _Alduin's End-times were received far more positively than many might have expected. I wasn't surprised. After all, he presented an Armageddon you could take a sword to. There's an appeal to that kind of doom. Killing a single dragon, no matter how legendary, still seems easier today than the doom presented when the Dominion swept through Tamriel. And that was no less gruesome."_

Legate Rikke, Skyrim Auxiliaries, 4E 204

* * *

 **Peace, in our time?**

* * *

The new Royal Army, guided and formed by the iron hands of Generals Cauthrien and Belisarius, was a new and strange beast, to both Fereldans and Imperials.

Like the Legion, its soldiers were split into Cohorts, then maniples and then finally centuries. The men trained either as a full cohort or a smaller, more maneuverable maniple, and slept in the barracks as centuries, small groups no greater than eight men. Imperial Centurions oversaw their training, beating those who fell behind on the marches, bellowing orders and corrections to those who floundered about in arms training and belittled those who could not perform well enough in the simpler yet no less hard physical exercises.

But the Centurions only had so much authority. Once the day's training had come to an end, and the recruits would drag themselves to the mess, Fereldan Captains took over. Many of these were veterans of the Blight, or even old enough to have fought in the Rebellion. They were hard men, and offered scant more mercy to their own countrymen than the Centurions did. Even then, they themselves were recruits of a sort, receiving training and guidance in Imperial tactics, logistics and the best counter to whatever situations might arise on the field of battle. Often, Captains came from the same regions of Ferelden as the men they ruled, and more than one had his background in the ruling family of a Bannorn.

Below the Captains, however, lesser men were needed to steer and command the Cohorts in battle. Lieutenants and Serjeants filled these roles, splitting the Cohorts yet further into smaller parts, where Serjeants commanded the maniples, and Lieutenants made up the link between them and the Captain. Even then, the Imperials were too fond of delegating responsibilities by far, and below the Serjeants came a new title Philippe had never even heard of. _Optio,_ they were called, and served as the seniors of each century. These were barely above the rest of the recruits in benefits, but were instead given a greater amount of responsibility.

Keeping track of all these new ranks and titles was a mess Philippe was content with not having to deal with. As a common soldier, one of the thousands, he was as well as invisible in the throng. No attention drawn, nothing that would pick him out as unusual. Even if he knew that he was, and that the rest of his century had noticed the same thing.

"How's it your name's Turner, when you're a Brewster?" John asked, leaning over the edge of his cot. Philippe had the distinct pleasure of listening to the creaking of wood whenever the stockier Fereldan would turn in his sleep.

"Pa was a pole turner." The lie came easily enough, and if it hadn't he'd have been caught on the very first day, anyway. Growing up, the daughter of one of Lydes' pole turners had thrown a cow patty after him - though he'd never understood how she'd dared - and the memory had stuck of her last name; "He started a brewery, but the name stuck."

"Ah."

"Brewing gives you that kind of muscles?" Randyll muttered, half asleep in the darkness.

"Rolling kegs does." Philippe answered him; "Especially when your pa's importing hops from Kirkwall, and you've gotta carry them from the docks to the shop." He sighed, pretending it was a strained memory; "Long way between. Don't think neither docks nor the shop's still standing."

"Aye, those fuckin' Orlesians." Radzig spat; "Turned their backs on us in the Blight, then they try'n put us to the torch when the Empire shows up to help out. I tell you, Maker's blessing those folks are, 'specially their mages."

"Mages?" Philippe asked, putting aside the rude words about his people. He knew Radzig wasn't entirely wrong, but all the same there was far more to it than a simple invasion. His Excellency, Gaspard de Chalons, had wanted to _save_ Ferelden from the pyre. But, he knew pointing that out would invite suspicion he _really_ did not need; "The flying ones?"

"I saw them, in Denerim." John said; "Aviators or somethin', they're called. Maker's Breath, the sight when they swept in, and their _airships_ too" Philippe perked up, though he remained still as he listened, imagining the young man's gesticulations; "Like watching ships in the sea, just they were in the skies, and dropped all kinds 'o shit on the Darkspawn. Then those mages _fell_ from one of the ships, and it was like taking a rake to the Darkspawn, just tearin' them up 'n apart with fire."

"Like watching the Maker himself reaping his toll, it was." Radzig mumbled, his voice drowsy and near-gone; "I was on the walls 'fore they fell, too. I saw the Drake of Denerim on the battlements."

"Aye, you keep sayin' that." John replied; "I'd counted my blessings when they said the walls were full, and the rest of us were thrown back behind the second gate. You're makin' shit up too, I reckon."

"Am _not_ ," Radzig said; "You'd not say that if you'd seen 'er, like a force of nature, she kept a whole section o' the wall clear."

"Who's the Drake of Denerim?" Philippe asked, propped up on an elbow; "I've not heard of it."

"Here we go..." Mathias sighed, judging from the sound he was pressing a pillow over his face already, trying to block the noise out.

"She's one of the Imperials, they say, an Outlander who came here even before the rest of 'em did." Radzig started, and by the tone of his voice, Philippe could understand Mathias' reaction.

"I heard she's a Circle mage." Konrad said.

"No, no, she was captured by the Templars in the Wilds, and _taken_ to the Circle." Radzig corrected - provided it was true - the Silverton man; "Imperials don't have Circles, different kind o' magic they say. No demons, no possession, just the benefits of magic, no drawbacks."

"Wild tales." Randyll muttered.

"So the Grey Wardens got her out, right?" Tom asked, though likely he knew the story already; "Heard it that way, the Grey Wardens were recruiting and took her from the Tower."

"Pretty much, yeah." Radzig said; "Small group of Wardens survived Ostagar, got blamed for the King's death, you know. Well, group of them went around and gathered up a new army, then went to Denerim to participate in the Landsmeet with Arl Eamon."

"Maker rest his soul." Samwell muttered.

"His 'n Warden-Commander Alistair's." John added; "Bloke was a Therein bastard, but he gave his life for the city, for the lot of us to get back in behind the second gate."

"So, the Drake of Denerim..." Philippe pressed. He hadn't heard these stories before, of how Denerim was defended during the Blight. He could barely even imagine what the Darkspawn Horde must have been like, for men like John and Radzig to have faced; "What did she do?"

"I lost sight of 'er, after the outer walls fell." Radzig's shrug was audible against the roughspun covers, betrayed by the creaking of the bed; "We just kept on falling back until we were at the last walls, other side of the river. Tall walls, taller than most would bother raising up inside a city. Was on the wall, me and a few others, near the western end, when folks started shouting and pointed at the fighting below, outside the city. The Archdemon had shown up and was tearing the army outside apart, murdering and burnin' and nobody could do nothing about it."

"That's when that roar came, right?" John whispered, almost reverently.

"Aye, that's when _she_ roared." Radzig was gleeful now, like a child proud of some great deed; "She'd jumped _off_ the walls, the crazy woman, and took on the Archdemon in _a melee_. Who _does_ that, I ask you?"

"Madwomen, they do that." Randyll grumbled, though his voice held amusement; "Helps when they're shapeshifters."

"Don't ruin it, sour-ass, Philippe's not heard it before." The militiaman argued; "Yeah, so, thing is there's a _reason_ she's got that title now. Woman's a shapeshifter mage, and it's not just a wolf or a bear she'd turned into."

"A drake?" Philippe wagered the guess, and only halfway expected to be right. Even he knew that such abilities were rare, _very_ rare, or they'd be taught to loyal Circle mages and used in war.

"Spot on, and not just a small one either." Radzig's grin was audible; "Big as a High Dragon almost, but no wings at all. She was built more like a massive kind of lizard, or some sort of...predator-thing. Just scale and muscle and fire and rage and...Maker's Breath, watching them tearing at each other, you'd think the world was ending."

"It was wrong." Randyll turned in his cot; "Whole Blight was _wrong_ from start to end, don't help none that we get our asses saved by some girly outlander mage who turns into dragons."

"Drake, technically." Samwell noted; "And she's an outlander no more, I heard. She's a Cousland now, set to be the next Teyrna."

"Wasn't one of the other Wardens a Cousland?" John asked; "Can Wardens inherit titles?"

"Special Royal decree, probably." the former scribe hummed; "They almost gave Amaranthine to the Wardens, to hold as theirs. This isn't too different, I think. And, there was another Cousland in the Wardens, what was his name...?"

"Warden Aedan Cousland, aye." Radzig said; "Remember him holding off the Darkspawn by the barricade, while the rest of us lot pulled back 'cross the bridge to the Alienage. Girl's amazing, but he wasn't no slouch either."

"One Warden held back the Darkspawn, alone?" Philippe muttered, taken with amazement. He'd never himself fought the Blighted cretins, but knew by repute how even veteran Chevaliers found them a terror.

"Oh yee of little faith." John grinned in the darkness; "Never seen a Grey Warden fight before, do you?"

"I've not, never came to Portsmouth in the Blight, nor before it." He shrugged. He doubted they had, and Mathias was snoring. The only one who could have called his ignorance out was fast asleep.

"You see them move, and you think, humans can't _do_ that shit." Radzig added; "Aedan Cousland was movin' faster than the eye could track, 'n I've got good enough eyes to say that. Darkspawn seemed _slow_ next to 'im, and he cut them apart by the bushels."

"Sounds amazing."

"Oh, they were." John sighed; "Maker's Breath, they were."

* * *

Tullus dangled the small, wooden amulet in its string, watching the ornate carvings. Peculiar, to think the Orlesians could craft such things when they locked their mages up in towers. It was one of the few items the healers had not stripped Gaspard off, so seemingly innocent and decorative, it could for all they knew have been something religious, something to find strength in. But this thing was magical, he could tell.

Stripped of all the other regalia, all the gold and the feathers and posture, laid wounded in a small tent, few would have thought Gaspard de Chalons anything but yet another soldier, yet another casualty of the battle. He lacked the body of an emperor too, far too muscled and scarred for a man supposed to reign from the comforts of a palace. It was a soldier's body, not a sovereign's.

But then, Gaspard _was_ a soldier, wasn't he? He'd fought and won a civil war, beaten his foes on the field of battle. As a fellow general, Tullus found he could respect such tenacity, given that it was a human. The elves could stick their tenacity up a certain dark place.

There was the question then, what to do with his guest now. Saving his life had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, acting on instinct more than considered his actions. If Orlais thought him dead, and would treat any return of his as necromancy or the like, Gaspard no longer had the authority to entreat with the Empire about peace. He was useless, from a cynical standpoint. Friendly relations were likely out of question too, with the relentless slaughter of his men by the vengeful Legionaries. But even then, there were so many of them, actually killing them all was a task harder than it'd seemed. Men, even when they had fled the battle, fought back like any other when faced with imminent death. It was nature.

The Dragon had been lowered once more, and those so lucky to live until then were instead being rounded up, herded together like cattle. He didn't know what to do with them yet, but knew that the Emperor – _his_ Emperor – would disapprove of the senseless slaughter of men when the Dominion seemed poised to strike. He had ordered the looting of the Orlesian wagons and their dead. If they ended up with large numbers of prisoners, he wanted them fed from somewhere other than the Legion's supplies.

It would do little but fuel the already burning resentment. The Legion was disciplined, but losing comrades could turn even the most disciplined of minds to vengeance, and weapons were close at hand. The casualties were bad, to the point that entire cohorts had been rendered little but names. The Second had been hit the worst, with the Sixth, Fourth and First following it up. Out of a thousand men, now remained just three hundred. The Sixth had been reduced to not even a maniple, whole the Fourth was now barely a regular Cohort in size, and the First had lost a quarter of its men. The Hastatis always suffered the worst in prolonged fighting, enough incentive on its own for its men to climb the ranks or join the healers…but it didn't take away from the fact that they had held their ground.

And the Chevaliers had butchered his men in their thousands.

He wasn't immune to that resentment either, just like his men. As the one who had brought such a host to battle, he wanted to grab the unconscious Gaspard and beat him until little remained but a smear. The man was useless now, so what the _hell_ had all those men just died for? What had they gained by throwing themselves into Orlais if its Emperor no longer held any power? The answer was…nothing, at least nothing of value. They had soaked the ground with an ocean of blood, and the treason of one man had seen all that be for naught.

Arkay would be busy the next few days, he felt. Many who were wounded would not survive their wounds, and he'd be damned if he allowed a single Orlesian to be treated before the last of his own. The Emperor seemed set on a conciliatory approach, but that had all gone out the window when that Duke had buried his sword in Gaspard's guts.

"Where…?" his eyes shifted to the bedridden Orlesian. It had somehow escaped his notice that Gaspard had awoken, even if he still seemed at best confused. When those unfocused eyes found Tullus, they somewhat seemed to sharpen, clearing. He made to sit, only to find himself restrained; " _Where_ am I?"

"Your tent, Gaspard." Tullus said, a frown upon his face. It was no easy situation, for either of them. He acknowledged as much, even though he held no sympathy for the loss of Orlesian lives. Peace was offered, and spat upon. The Empire only had so much leniency; "Don't try to sit, your organs are still putting themselves together."

Gaspard was quiet, but watched him intently. The confusion was gone from his eyes, instead now there was only a quiet resignation, though to what wasn't yet clear. He doubted it was to Imperial supremacy or his own folly. Finally, after almost a full minute of staring, the Orlesian spoke;

"Duke Bernard…" he spoke with quiet words, shame clear in them; "He tried to kill me."

"He did." Tullus nodded, peering down the other man, his guest and captive both. He knew the bear pelts he wore on his shoulders made him seem larger, more intimidating. The image was one he had long been aware of, and enjoyed the effects it had on his surroundings. To his men, he was larger than life, more than a man, more than a general. He was a rock of support and confidence. To his enemies, he might appear like an Orc, feral and dangerous, wild; "It was a surprise. And keeping you alive was harder than I'd like."

"I do not understand…why?"

"I don't know Orlesian politics." He shrugged; "There could be any number of reasons. You tell me."

"No, why…" Gaspard hesitated, looking older than Tullus suspected he was. Treason too, was a rapid ager of men; "I would not have saved your life, had the tables ben turned. I believe I already know why Bernard did what he did…It is disconcerting."

"Getting stabbed tends to be pretty disconcerting." He nodded, folding his hands before his chin; "My Emperor wishes for peace, rather than the destruction of your nation. At the time it seemed…rational, to prevent your death."

Gaspard chuckled at that, a weak, pained sound.

"You speak as if your victory was assured already. What foes have you bested that could measure up to Orlesian Chevaliers, or the strength of my armies?"

Tullus gave him a grin in turn, letting his teeth show in the dim light of the tent. What foes indeed? It was tempting to reveal what he knew, of the suspected plans the Thalmor had to destroy the world itself, in their mad gamble to achieve some sort of godhood. It was tempting, but he knew what he was allowed to reveal, and what he was not.

The strength of the Empire's true enemies was not amongst what he could reveal.

"Worse than you, rest assured." He said instead, letting the grin fall away.

He knew what was going on, outside. Thousands of Orlesians yet awaited either salvation or the axe, and he was not yet sure himself which it would be. The Emperor would want it to be the former, for the simple sake of preserving human lives…but he wondered if it could be done, if his liege's dreams of human unity could be achieved, or if they were just that, dreams. And what if the Orlesians sensed Imperial hesitation? They would see it as weakness, no doubt, and try again for victory through force of arms.

"Let me make this clear, _Gaspard_." Tullus' voice was a low, deep and terrifying thunder, and made sure his guest understood that the lack of honorifics was deliberate; "Thousands of your men are now my prisoners, to do with as I'd please, usually. You can thank the Emperor they yet live at all, for I would have cut down ten for every one of mine that will no longer return to Tamriel. This is as far as it goes, your little war against the Empire. The Emperor has humored your efforts long enough already, and wants no more of it. Your armies are depleted, your Circles emptied of mages. Val Royeaux lies open. Even the highest walls cannot stop the Aviatorii from putting your capital to the torch."

"Burning the Grand Cathedral would put all of Thedas against you." Gaspard muttered, almost as if he wasn't even directing the words at Tullus; "But I suppose it doesn't matter anymore…"

"No, it doesn't…" Tullus nodded, picking his pipe out from within his clothes. Damnable thing always got stuck, somehow; "Ferelden is against you, the Anderfels is against you, Tevinter is against you… The Free Marches and Nevarra might stand with you, if they feel they could win" He still had some Elfroot left, at the bottom of the pouch, and stuffed the last scraps down the hole; "But your armies have been crushed, Gaspard, your mages slain and your Chevaliers beaten down. Your standing forces have been crushed by fraction of the Empire's. If you want your Chantry and Divine to live, you will surrender and acknowledge defeat. Your Chantry will cease its attempts at putting Ferelden to the torch, as well as any future plans of doing the same to the Anders."

For some reason, Gaspard chuckled then. Tullus paused, drawing in spiced, calming air before he let it roll about inside. When he finally released it, a ring of smoke danced its way upwards until it dissipated against the roof. He looked at the bedridden Orlesian, frowning. This wasn't the reaction he had expected.

"I have amused you?"

"Hardly." Gaspard mused, his voice becoming somber; "But you presume I have such authority. I am believed dead, and the Divine stands before no authority but the Maker's."

"So, her own, then." Tullus grumbled, inhaling. He cared little if his remarks offended; "Shit. That'll make things messy… _messier_."

"Divine Beatrix…she has outplayed me, I fear, in the Game." The Orlesian sighed; "I can stay afloat, but she…she _sails_ , manipulating and twisting loyalties, moving pawns about in manners I could not predict."

"Duke Bernard."

"I fear so, yes." Gaspard nodded, and Tullus was not about to halt him now, when he was this open; "He visited the Grand Cathedral on her request, not a month ago. I have enough spies in the Cathedral to know he was not the only one to have been invited over the past two years, but…beyond that, I am blind to her motives and moves until after the damage is done."

"Fantastic…" Tullus muttered, drawing on his pipe for calm; "Darkspawn, fanatics and zealots, just what I wanted out of this _shithole_ of a continent…"

"If Divine Beatrix ordered Bernard to kill me, she will most likely already have set in motion the rumors of my death…" Gaspard seemed to pay him no heed now, conversing with himself instead. Tullus let him, content with smoke and information; "My survival will be painted as necromancy, or demonic possession, issued from the highest authority. My word will mean nothing against hers."

" _Fantastic_ …" the drawl came out with smoke, no longer attempted to form shapes; "Does anyone know you well enough that they would vouch for your survival, even with the Divine speaking against it?"

"Fewer, now..." the Orlesian muttered; "Fewer still, if you execute what prisoners you have taken."

"Your men." Tullus frowned; "As the Emperor, you think your _subjects_ would recognize you?"

"I have campaigned with them for years, fought, bled, killed and drunk with them." Gaspard said; "I know my soldiers better than my ministers, which I suppose the Divine will take advantage of…"

"Convenient, given how their lives are in _my_ hands."

"Convenience...maybe."

The Imperial rubbed at his forehead.

"...Their lives were safe anyway, once the Dragon was lowered. The Legion is made of soldiers, not senseless killers…" Tullus allowed, mostly because Gaspard's words had struck close to home. Rare was the general who fraternized with his men in such a manner, rarer still one who was also emperor. He was himself of this rare breed, but knew scant few others who were amongst his peers and shared the sentiment back home. Sangria, bless her bosom, called him ' _papa-bear'_ when he indulged in it. He sighed and puffed one last time before handing his foe the tip. Gaspard blinked at the gesture; "It's Elfroot. Warden in Laysh introduced one of my Centurions to it. Your people use it in healing, I believe?"

"I… do not understand you, General Tullus." Gaspard said, though he did take the offered pipe; "You threaten to butcher my men like cattle, then you offer me your own pipe…What is it you want?"

" _Peace_." He muttered, and truthfully too; "Amongst humankind, at least. I'll take it if we can get it with the other races too, though. No one in the Empire gives a Skeever's ass about your one god…-"

"General Tullus, Sir." The tent's opening was torn aside, revealing Legate Kratorius, haggard, worn and specked with dried blood. Strangest thing though, was that he seemed to be carrying a bird, some sort of crow. It was dangling from his hands, though it seemed very much alive; "We found this."

"Yes, Legate, I can see that." Tullus frowned, trying to figure out if the Legate was suggesting adding the bird to the rations; "It's a very nice bird"

"It's a carrier bird, General." The Legate continued, presenting the dazzled bird like it was a gift; "We found it staggering around in the trenches, I think the artillery shocked it out of the skies."

"It's not one of our birds." He stood all the same, taking the feathered creature from his Legate. He noticed one leg bore a ring, with a sealed scroll tied on; "Seal's not ours either."

"It's one of the Cathedral's ravens." It came as something of a surprise when Gaspard spoke up, from where he was still tied to his bed; "They're venerated birds, kept in the aviaries of the Grand Cathedral, and only there…They can only be dispatched on the Divine's Command."

"Who is it for?" Legate Kratorius was still present, eying the bedridden Emperor with some curiosity; "Pardon me, General, isn't that…?"

"Have you no duties, Legate?" Tullus gave his subordinate a stare that could have cracked stone. Legate Kratorius was older than him, and yet still scurried out like a bashful recruit. Gaspard seemed to find it amusing; "Well?"

"The birds are venerated, because they can track the intended recipients by their blood, not unlike how Templars track down apostate mages." The Orlesian explained; "if it came here…"

"Meant for you?" Tullus raised a brow, even as he untied the scroll. The seal wasn't one he knew. When he broke it, and glanced at its contents, it was clear he would come no further; "Not for Imperials, that's for sure…"

Against his better judgment – because usually you didn't give the enemy potentially vital information – he handed Gaspard the letter. The prone Emperor took it gingerly, almost as if the parchment itself was holy, and ran his eyes across its contents.

Tullus only realized he had held his breath when smoke burst from the pipe, still lodged in the Orlesian's mouth.

"It is from one of the Seekers assigned to the Grand Cathedral, Cassandra Pentragast…" Gaspard started, frowning before he sighed; "Would you believe that she warns me here, of Duke Bernard possibly having a secret motive to his journey north with me?"

"Is a Seeker a sort of guard?"

"It is…difficult to explain their purpose, but…" Gaspard let the parchment drop; "It settles it, that Duke Bernard was given his task by the Divine."

"Troublesome." Tullus muttered, getting to his feet; "I'll have to report this. I'll be back soon."

"To your Emperor, you mean?" his guest inquired, and Tullus paused in his tracks; "I... would like to speak to him once more, if possible."

"I can report from here. You can participate." The Imperial shrugged; "I must still gather the mages needed for it."

It was only mere minutes before he returned to the tent once again with mages in tow, finding Gaspard where he had left him. The Orlesian seemed...as if he was searching for something, though he abandoned the effort the moment Tullus entered. Was it perhaps the wooden medallion, now resting in one of the many of his inner pockets?

"A word of warning." He said; "When you find yourself in the spell, your body remains here, unmoving. Only your mind wanders, and forms your body as such. Imagine yourself _clothed_ , if possible."

Tullus then nodded to the mages, illusionists both.

"Open a connection."

The room around him vanished in a blur, though he knew well enough that he'd moved not a foot away. His feet were still atop the Orlesian hill, but his eyes now found themselves in the White-Gold Tower, in the inner sanctum. His liege sat there, reclining behind his desk as mountains of parchment and paper piled around him. He seemed tired.

"My Emperor." It was a strange sensation to move about as an apparition, in that he knew he yet stood very still physically. He couldn't feel a thing when his knee touched the marble floor, simply because there was neither floor nor bowing. He was, at the same time, aware that Gaspard's consciousness had followed, though his guest was no longer barely clothed, but likely in what he thought of himself as the most. It was the same plate he'd worn when they had first met; "Forgive the intrusion, but Gaspard de Chalons wished to speak with you once more. I allowed this on my own authority."

"General Tullus, and we'd barely just spoken." Titus Mede the Second stood from his desk, wandering around and across the room until they stood face to face, of a sorts; "Emperor Gaspard, a pleasure to see you again, though I wished for different circumstances."

"I…am here, yet not?" Gaspard muttered, holding up an ethereal hand; "Pardon, this is …a most _strange_ experience. This is how you so easily communicate across the seas?"

"Practical, would you not agree?" The Emperor mused, hands clasped behind his back; "General, please do stand, you are making me feel awkward."

"Excellency, there has been a development." Tullus said as he righted himself, and stood a head taller than his liege for it; "The attempted assassination of the Orlesian Emperor was, it appears, orchestrated by Divine Beatrix. She is the supreme religious authority in most of Thedas."

"I see." The Emperor muttered, his smile evaporating; "Gaspard, are you prepared to enter into a cessation of hostilities?"

"Continuing the war with your Empire seems…unwise." Gaspard muttered; "Orlais is powerful, but so too does it seem your Empire is. Further bloodshed would avail little to either side. However, if I am believed dead, until my successor is found, Divine Beatrix meanwhile holds power."

"If we present Gaspard alive, there is a real risk he will be labeled either a marionette-corpse or a result of demonic possession." Tullus said; "Even if the Orlesian Emperor agrees to peace, it seems not so easily attained. The Divine has whipped half of Thedas into a frenzy against the other half. The Anderfels, Tevinter and Ferelden are secured, as far as relations go. That still leaves us with Nevarra, Antiva, the Free Marches and Orlais itself to contend with, and I lack the numbers to maintain a presence here. Especially if Belisarius requires his Aviatorii back."

"Aviatorii?" Gaspard asked, turning his head to the General; "Your flying mages, I presume."

"An Imperial specialty, you could say." The Emperor hummed; "I'm afraid any reinforcements to your position will take time, General. All Legions are currently deployed where they cannot be spared, or are still returning from Morrowind. We are currently raising an additional three. At the next spring, they can set sail for Thedas."

"…That might be too long." Gaspard said, and Tullus frowned as he studied his guest. It was difficult to discern his motives, even now, when it came to the Legion; "If Duke Bernard, the man who struck me down, has escaped to Val Royeaux, new forces of the faithful will amass soon. Divine Beatrix won't tolerate my survival now, I fear."

" _Fanatics_." Tullus explained, when his Emperor turned eyes on him; "They threw themselves at the front, entirely uncaring if they lived or died. They refused to flee when the rout started."

"Doesn't that sound all too familiar…" the Emperor sighed; "Very well then, General. I want this war ended, and I want your Legion back in Tamriel before the year is out. Your actions carry my authority, however you decide to act."

"If I may…" the Orlesian spoke up; "I still do not understand your insistence on peace. In the eyes of hindsight, your forces seem capable of breaking through to Val Royeaux with little enough difficulties. Yet, you offer peace time and again. General Tullus expresses that he wants peace amongst us as humans, but I feel I would be amiss if I did not ask...What lies behind this desire of yours? What greater foes are you fearing that you wish to end this war, even with no recompense at all?"

Tullus suppressed the urge to avert his eyes, a rare thing that he should need to. He had perhaps still revealed too much to the Orlesian earlier, that he would pose such a question now. His eyes found the Emperor's face, looking for signs that his liege suspected the same, and that he disapproved. He saw neither, however, only the tired eyes of a man weary of secrets and schemes.

"Understand, Gaspard de Chalons, that few enough know of my reasons that I could fit them in this very room…" those tired eyes shifted to Tullus, who felt a small, ghostly swell of pride, that he was counted amongst that number. A pride that had its counterpart in the dread that filled his heart, at the thought of the Thalmors' plans. To unmake the world itself for aspirations of divinity… But, it was an end of days that Man could fight with sword and cannonfire, rather than to sit and weep; "General Tullus was not long ago himself inducted into these reasons. He has my absolute trust."

"Then you should not tell me, if only that I cannot in your eyes yet be trusted." Gaspard said, but the older man shook his head.

"I am not blind to the corruption within your nation, Gaspard." There was a faint smile on his liege's face, like it was a joke unshared; "Nor to your efforts in rooting it out. You are a man of integrity, a _rarity_ amongst Orlesians, to say the least. I am more well-informed than you might think."

"That is unsettling, given how recent your arrival in Thedas is…" the Orlesian muttered, scratching at his chin. Tullus wondered if he was doing the same thing with his real body; "I will offer you honesty then, in turn for your apparent trust in me. I act only in the interest of my people, Emperor Mede. I will not act in the interest of yours if it jeopardizes mine, and I will likely turn on you, should your intentions go against the interest of my people."

The Emperor, the Tamrielic Emperor, smiled at this, as if he had hoped for just such words.

"I would expect nothing less, Gaspard, Emperor of Orlais. I act only in the interests of _my_ people as well, and always have. The only reason the Legion is in Thedas is that I wish to prevent the Darkspawn in reaching Tamriel." The smile waned, if only a little; "The intervention of your Chantry however, has forced a change of plans. Ferelden now stands under the protection of my Legions, and has through marriage solidified its alliance with my people. I will not tolerate incursion upon the lands east of the Frostbacks."

"I would call such words bold and brash, had I not myself witnessed the power you wield, even from across the oceans." Gaspard sighed; "You have decimated my armies and my mages, brought low my Chevaliers and sunken my ships… I cannot but... _acknowledge_ that you are my equal."

"You are a soldier, Gaspard de Chalons. You understand what those sheltered by palace walls would not." The Emperor said; "You understand when peace is preferable, when victory, even when attainable, is not worth the cost."

"Any soldier knows peace to be preferable, always" Gaspard's words were slow and considered as he spoke, and Tullus found himself in agreement. Only, too often by far, the preferable did not mean attainable; "You have personal experience with this too."

It was not a question, and Tullus knew it to be well aimed

"I do." The Emperor sighed. The Great War still haunted many of its victims, those who, like Tullus, still walked this world "I have faced the horrors of war enough to know them best left unmade."

In the small group of those the Emperor trusted, it was no longer "the Great" War, but "The First Great" War. They all knew there would be another, the only variable was when. The massacre in Wlonia seemed, to Tullus, to indicate that it had moved closer, nearer and nearer, like the creeping shadow of death.

"And it is why I do not wish for hostilities amongst Men. There are forces at play that wish to see the very fabric of creation unmade."

"Demons." Gaspard said.

" _Thalmor_." The Emperor uttered the word like a curse; "Elven supremacists who seek the destruction of the world, of the material plane itself, in their bid for ascension. Thirty years ago they almost succeeded. Now, it seems they are ready to try again."

"How could _elves_ destroy the world?" Gaspard asked. Tullus knew the answer, but paid attention all the same. That this was supposed to have been a peace conference was now, it seemed, all but forgotten between statesmen. It was, maybe, the Emperor's intentions all along, to coerce Gaspard into peace with the revelation of a far more terrible danger; "I know my people cares little for them, but they are still part of this world. They are no more supernatural than you or I."

"Nirn, our world, is a dangerous place, but fragile all the same." The Emperor said; "In the time of its creation, it was wrought into solidity by Towers, ancient structures older than any sentient creature that walks or ever walked. This is no debate of theology, Gaspard, but of very real and substantial danger. The Towers are real, at least those that yet stand. The White-Gold Tower, the Imperial Palace, is one of those few. During the Great War, the Thalmor attempted its destruction."

Gaspard did not speak for almost a minute, visibly wracking his mind, perhaps to guess if there was deception at play? Tullus didn't know, but suspected.

"Believing you in this is a great deal to ask, Titus Mede." The Orlesian Emperor muttered; "I do not follow your gods, nor am I suddenly going to believe the danger posed in the destruction of these towers. I am Andrastian, I cannot believe in your notion of the world's making."

"I am not asking you to."

"What do you want, then, out of this?" Gaspard asked again; "What do you hope to gain?"

"When the time comes, as many soldiers as you can throw at the Thalmor." The Emperor said, and the manner of his voice sent a chill down Tullus' spine; "It is of little consequence whether you believe in the Towers or not. The Thalmor once before sought the death of this world, and they will try again and again until either they or we are brought to ruin. They will shun no weapon, no strategy or tactic, no matter how foul or devious, in their quest for the massacre of all that lives."

"Murderous elven fanatics…" the Orlesian scoffed; "For all you are heathens, you sing the Chantry's tune. How have I not heard of these fiends, or their attempt at destroying the world?"

"They are, to our knowledge, unaware of Thedas as a home of Men." Though Tullus knew this was bound to change. The Thalmor had spies in every corner, in every house and on every ship; "Last time they threw their full might against the Empire alone, but they will know of you now, no doubt. Divided we risk destruction, but aside one another, we can throw the Thalmor back into the depths of Oblivion they so crave."

"Still, you ask much..." Gaspard muttered; "Even with the white peace you offer, I cannot meet your request whilst Orlais falls into the hands of Divine Beatrix, and whatever schemes she has set in motion. I lack the forces to take on the zealous hosts gathering to the cause of her Exalted March. Thousands of my men are still held prisoners in Ferelden, and by General Tullus in Churneau. Set them free, and I might have the forces to tear out the corruption that spreads from the Grand Cathedral."

"Total clemency was, and still is offered." The Emperor replied; "You men will be freed should you consent, under your own responsibility that they do not simply join forces with those who would seek to prolong the war."

"I will contact Belisarius, Excellency." Tullus spoke up; "I have the mages on hand as it is. Though, if I may, a question?"

"Of course." His liege nodded.

"I do not understand yet the Divine's _reason_ for this apparent assassination attempt. By all rights, Gaspard came to Churneau with the purpose of driving my forces into the sea."

"That was the plan." Gaspard clasped hands behind his back; "However, stories of Laysh had spread too far that I did not consider the quality of you soldiers. And after your attack on Jader, I knew a prolonged war would lead to more such attacks, against which I would be hard-pressed to offer meaningful resistance."

"That would explain your willingness to negotiate…" Tullus nodded; "And Duke Bernard? What could the Divine have promised him that he would kill his own Emperor?"

"Men of faith can be led astray, General." Gaspard sighed; "I fear Bernard's piety and indignation from Ferelden left him open to Beatrix's manipulations. Before you and I met, he admitted to dreading my fall. I wonder now, with Beatrix's involvement, if he did not mean my fall from the Maker's Light, such as he saw it."

"The Maker chooses his own enemies." Tullus said; "I believe those were your words? Wise, yet they may have swung his decision. The Divine is supposed to be the Maker's representative, yes?"

"You say nothing I have not already asked myself, General." Gaspard turned to Tullus' liege then; "It is impossible to guess at her motivations. Beatrix was always a shrewd player of the Game, and I fear only in person can I demand the answer to that question. Orlais is the seat of the Chantry, understand. My people is a devoted one, and asking them to follow me over the Maker's chosen is unlikely to end without bloodshed. It is not a given my own men would even follow me, were I to accuse the Divine. There will be blood."

"There already has been blood." The Emperor said grimly; "I would like for it to be the last."

"It won't be." Gaspard said.

"No, it won't be."

* * *

"No way." Talia's voice was a choked laugh.

"Maker's _Breath_ , that's just cruel..." Aedan muttered.

"I think it suits him." Brelyna mused, balancing on her heels; "You look _splendid_ , J'zargo."

The Khajiit, for his part, did not seem overly amused, nor did he agree to the praise. Talia was starting to have trouble seeing him, the tears in her eyes rendering her friend a hazy mess. Even then, the brightly colored ribbons in his fur, tied around his tail and any knot of hair long enough to form a bundle, were very much visible.

"J'zargo will claw your _tongues_ out if you laugh." The cat growled; "He did _not_ ask for this."

"How did that even _happen_?" Aedan was hiding his grin behind a hand; "Where'd you go anyway?"

"I sent him along with the children, to gather herbs in the nearby woodland." Eleanor appeared in the door, a self-satisfied smile on her face; "The attack was a scary thing for them, you know, and getting them out in the greenery seemed sensible. Of course, I couldn't send them _alone_ , and they did just so happen to adore J'zargo…"

"This one does not appreciate the Teyrna's smugness." J'zargo muttered, yet averted his eyes from the old woman; "It was enough that he went, yes? The children used _resin_ , he cannot actually remove these things!"

"…you were overwhelmed by children, really?" Talia asked, her grin mounting. She suspected it hadn't been all that terrible for him to suddenly be the center of such adoration. It was probably only when he realized the ribbons didn't come off that the fun went out of it. For him, at least. She'd bet it was hilarious for the kids; "The Great J'zargo of Winterhold was defeated by children?"

He gave her no answer, which in itself _was_ an answer.

"J'zargo knows not how to remove them."

"Fire?" Talia asked, a flame flickering to life at the point of her finger. The cat hissed at her; "Right, fur burns. And _smells_."

"Well, you could just cover up your ears with your hood." Brelyna giggled; "It worked during the Blight, after all."

"During the Blight you couldn't boil an egg on the cobblestone." Aedan noted; "That was a cold summer, all things considered. Spring alone is warmer this year. He'll sweat like a pig."

"Khajiit do not sweat." J'zargo shook his head, and the longer ribbons trailed through the air; "It is no matter of being seen, it is the _principle_. J'zargo is no female, these are not supposed to adorn him."

"If it's not a matter of being seen…" Talia mused; "Then you _do_ want to come along to Denerim?"

"J'zargo is not so keen on seeing Denerim again."

"Great" Eleanor clapped her hands; "Because the children are going to need a supervisor while their parents work to rebuild."

"…but he can swallow his pride and show himself in the capital, he supposes."

"Shame." The Teyrna shrugged; "The children will be sad."

* * *

"An Outlander?" Illia's face scrounged up in a frown, an expression of hers he found hard not to adore; "The Hero of Ferelden is one of those Imperials?"

"They called her the _Drake of Denerim_ , but..." Philippe shrugged; "Yes. Is that a problem?"

It was one of the few nights in the week where soldiers were allowed to spend time with their families - in his case that meant Illia, much as he wasn't sure he should phrase it like that around her - and that meant one of the few times a week he could spend more than a few minutes passing on information. It was sparse enough with it these days anyways. Inside the small hut the air was thick with the wafting scents of herbal tea, steaming from the cast-iron kettle hooked above the small fireplace. Bushels of nettles and Elfroot hung from the rafters in strings, and a sheepskin was spread across the earthen floor.

It was, all in all, growing on him.

"It's not a problem." His companion shook her head as she used a piece of hard bread to scrape up the last bits of broth from her wooden bowl. In the Estate of his family, they would sometimes use large plates of bread rather than those of pewter, and the poor of Lydes would get the bread afterwards. It was an old tradition, old enough that it was treated more as a sort of event than actual charity; "But it _is_ surprising. The Hero of Ferelden was known long before the Empire came to Ferelden, even before they landed in the Anderfels, to my knowledge."

"So, she arrived here prior." Though, he could admit it was strange. Did that mean the Imperials had known of Thedas before? How? Far as he knew, there had never been trade beyond the seas, and the only invaders that had come from the ocean before were the Qunari. He somehow doubted the Imperials were friends of the Oxmen; "The others didn't seem to know how, or when exactly. Just that she either appeared in the Circle, or in the Wilds."

"I'd heard of her before, some of the other women were talking and I listened in, though they never spoke of her origins..." Illia's face grew troubled, and he fought the urge to do or say something to alleviate it. He doubted it was wanted; "She's a Warden who fights with a glaive-like staff, with fiery red hair and just so breath, and that she speaks as if she were from Orlais...If she is an Outlander too..."

"You are thinking of the old madwoman we met in the forest?" he asked quietly; "The same who hit our forces on the bridge at Kincaster..."

"She had the same accent." The elf nodded, frowning; "And the same weapon, and hair that might once have been red, I think."

"It was hard to see in that light..." Philippe repressed a shudder. Did this mean there were _more_ like the old monster? He could still all too well remember the bridge, and that night of sudden interruption; "Maker's Breath, could they be related? Mother and Daughter?"

"It would explain a lot..." Illia snorted; "But it's not exactly likely. For all we know, red hair's the most common with their people, and it's common to make use of glaives."

"...we ought report this still, I think."

"We ought." She nodded, pushing out the rickety chair. Philippe stood as well as she brought out the ensorcelled gemstone. It was disturbing news, if there were more of the kind of mages Alma of the Dane was. Illia's palm flashed with light as she brought the enchantments to life. With the other, she cast a spell on the hut that made all outside noise melt away; "My Emperor, we have something to report."

" _This is General Toulouse de Churneau."_ The voice was new, gravely and brought with it a moment of shock. Philippe looked to Illia, but she too seemed to have not expected this, and likewise was unfamiliar with the voice; " _His Excellency is occupied with matters of planning for the battle ahead. He has delegated to me the task of receiving your reports. He did, however, not leave me with means to identify which agents I receive."_

"Illia, Knight-Enchanter of Montsimmard." She said. For the briefest of moments, she looked to Philippe as if she contemplated bringing him up as well, though he expected her not to. He was just her keeper, to ensure her safety and the plausibility of her identity. A lone woman on the road brought attention.

" _Report, Serah"_

"The rebuilding of the Fereldan army progresses as expected. They are being drilled in the same tactics and manners as the Imperials." This was all old news, he knew, but maybe the General didn't; "My report pertains to the hostile known as 'Alma', who confronted our forces on the Kincaster Bridge."

" _I see"_ The General replied, a strange turn to his voice; " _If it is crucial, I shall take it to his Excellency immediately."_

"Of course, General." Illia nodded, not that the man on the other side could tell; "As you know, we encountered 'Alma' once more in the forests on our way to Gherlen's Pass. News of the Hero of Ferelden, an Imperial also known as the Drake of Denerim, has led us to speculate that there might exist a connection."

" _We are aware of the Hero of Ferelden. How is there a connection?"_

"They are alike, in apparent powers and accent, both sounding Orlesian to those who do not actively listen for the difference." Something about Illia's words made Philippe's subconscious nag him. _Something_ was nagging him, about all this, but what? He'd made sure his own accent was passable around Fereldans, and even threw in their drawl once he'd grown accustomed to it; "The Hero of Ferelden is described as wielding a glaive and possessing fiery red hair, as well as an immense strength that belies her form. Traits the woman known as 'Alma' share, though she seemed evidently older."

" _We are still gathering more information on this Alma."_ The General did sound appreciative though; " _Still, these traits might be common amongst the Imperials. It is all the same new information, and I shall take it to his Excellency as soon as he permits interruption. Anything else?"_

"No, General. We have nothing new beyond that."

" _Very well. May the Maker watch over you."_

Philippe turned an eye to Illia when the medallion's glow had receded.

"General Toulouse de Churneau?"

"I haven't heard of him before either." She nodded; "He was not part of the campaigning army that entered Ferelden. Frankly I thought Duke Bernard was his Excellency's aide."

"It's...not entirely unusual for new officers to come in, if their predecessors failed. Duke Bernard lost almost his entire force. Charles was among them." Hopefully, his comrade yet lived, but the prisoners had been moved elsewhere mere days after his joining. There was no way of knowing where. Not unless he asked General Cauthrien herself, and he somehow doubted she would be talkative; "And General Toulouse would have a personal stake in stopping the Imperials. Churneau is going to be on the path between the Anderfels and Val Royeaux."

"That makes sense." Illia nodded, a smile coming to her lips; "Whatever would I do without my military advisor on hand like this?"

"I'm trying to imagine it, but the image of you in a Legionary's armor is just too surreal..." Philippe muttered, and chuckled as the elf gave him a slap on the arm. She couldn't comfortably reach any higher; "My lady, I did not say it was an _unattractive_ prospect."

"For a man of noble birth, you're a damn tease, Philippe..." she still grinned though; "By the way, how long before you have to be back?"

"My patrol starts at midnight, so..." his face scrounged up in thought. He had left the barracks at sunset, and it was going into late spring, which meant sunsets were later; "That's three hours yet, I believe."

"Excellent." Illia stood, and with a flurry of movement Philippe's vision was covered by her coat. In the darkness, her laughter rang; "We've time aplenty. Coming to bed, _husband_?"

Philippe gave his reply as he strode forward, and swept the laughing elf up in his arms. As a Circle mage, she would never marry, but he could still give her the bridal carry to the bed.

* * *

So, Gaspard had a spy at Gherlen's Pass?

General Tullus leaned back in his field chair, a replacement for the one that was now a trampled, broken mess somewhere down on the plains. His throat itched from the forced accent, only made somewhat easier by the use of magic. It was, curiously, a thing he would mostly do at parties, a trick for the children or the men - remarkably similar at times - and he could boast a passable Khajiit, though he knew any of the actual cat-folk would recognize it as fake.

"Interesting..." a grin spread across his face, feral and amused, warning of violence to any who might behold it; "Gaspard, you sneaky little twat..."

* * *

 **A/N: Glah, this one took me a while to write. Mostly because I've been dragging my sorry, sore feet over the Alps for the past week and a half, up and down mountains, hillsides and over roaring rivers (technically streams, but there's power and wideness, so... it was scary to cross, let's say), not to mention I wrote this on my table which is basically a large phone and the keyboard wasn't really suited for large documents like this. Also there was no internet to speak of, so I couldn't update, only write and write and write. (and eat, by the gods, those folks in Tyrol have some peculiar dishes. Sausage-soup, Pancake-soup, Egg-soup, etc...)**

 **Anyway, I just wanted to end the chapter with the image of Tullus rolling his moustache like a regular old villain, cackling as his enemies step in it. Repeatedly. I even opted out of expanding on the Philippe/Illia scene in favor of having Tullus there.  
Next update should be more Talia/Aedan heavy as they travel to Denerim, and probably still with focus on the Legion.**


	59. Faith and Blackpowder Promises

" _I was asked once, in the days we were in Thedas with the Seventh, why we were even there. Why were we in this faraway land, when the Dominion seemed closer and closer to launching the next war? With towns and villages being sacked and pillaged in the very Heartlands, why were two entire Legions deployed in Thedas? The General didn't know, couldn't tell us beyond that it was our duty. To wipe out the Blight before it spread to Tamriel? That made sense, well enough and all, but afterwards, why did we stay, and why did we become entangled in their politicking?_

 _As it turned out, the answer was as obvious as it was devoid of the nobility many of the natives probably thought it held. The Emperor was no fool, not even in his late years. He knew the threat the Dominion posed, that the Thalmor posed...He knew, there was a risk the Empire wouldn't be able to stop them, even with all we'd done to make ready. The Fereldans, those hound-lords? You'd scarcely find better archers in Valenwood, and never in such numbers. Our archers could barely draw a single arrow from their warbows, such was their weight for pounds. And the Orlesians, those masked, pompous gits? Arrogant they may be, but Talos knows they could ride horses, better by far than any of the Empire's knights but for the cream of High Rock, and even then it's a close shave. The Dwarves, stunted and stubborn creatures, nothing like the Dwemer we expected when we heard of them on the way to Thedas. Magic didn't bite on the like it did us, though. And they didn't flee, not even when all manner of monstrous cretins flooded the fields against them. Only Tiber Septim himself could boast finer soldiers._

 _It seems so obvious now, what I in my youth could not see. It was not out of the goodness of his heart, that the Emperor bid us set sail for Thedas. It wasn't to aid some spoiled, Bretoni brat either._

 _It was cold, calculating pragmatism."_

Legate Hardrada, Seventh Legion, 4E220

* * *

 **Faith and Blackpowder Promises**

* * *

"CLEAR THE FIRING AREA!"

Like scurrying ants, scores of engineers and assistants rushed for cover, leaving empty the open field in the middle of the compound. Empty, but for a strange contraption in its center, fastened to the ground with ropes and straps. Like an organ in the temples of Bravil or Kvatch, but it had been toppled and was now horizontal, framed by iron-bolted clasps and bands. 16 of them in total, each pipe was not in fact a mere cylinder, but a cannon-tube, smaller than a regular cannon by far, yes, but greater in numbers. Each was fastened to the frame with furnace-forged bands of reinforced iron, the tubes themselves amalgamations of iron and steel.

"IGNITION!"

Malog-al Baruuf gave the signal, and one of the attendees snapped his fingers, bringing to life a series of sparks, one in each ignition hole. Ideally it'd be done the same way as any firearm was meant to be used, but...

The first seven cannon tubes belched their fire successfully, hurling iron balls against a formation of straw-stuffed dummies in gold-painted iron armor. Dominion plate was difficult to get in large amounts, but luckily didn't have much more piercing resistance than good old iron. Seven iron slugs eviscerated everything in their paths.

The eighth tube ruptured in the side, splitting apart in a brilliant display of alchemical wrath. Even as the tubes not immediately near it fired off successfully, the explosion warped the ninth, eleventh and twelfth barrels, breaking the iron bands and wreaking the frame. Pieces of iron and wooden splinters flew about, one striking the faceplate of an engineer with enough force to dent the metal, and knocked the man to the ground in an unmoving heap.

The chief engineer waved away the billowing smoke before opening his own helmet to allow an unrestricted sight of the results. Out of the 16 barrels, three had misfired. An engineer was unconscious, maybe dead, he was quite sure yet. The Orc grinned, displaying his fangs in a bright smile;

"We're improving, people." He declared, even as the unmoving engineer was carried off; "Disassemble the frame and bring number eight to the workshop. We need it working by the end of the month. No way those fobs in Daggerfall are getting ahead of us!"

Hopefully by then, it could be fired and only kill what was _in front_ of it. Maybe a different frame? Limiting the firing sequences to stages would provide some much needed stability, but how to go about it? Some had suggested a rotary frame, with only one set of four hammers to strike rather than all of them needing their own. The solution of an idealist, he'd thought at first, but...maybe?

What was even worse though... He still didn't know what to _name_ the damn thing.

* * *

In the Royal Palace in Denerim, King Fergus Cousland, Queen Anora Mac Tir and General Belisarius Cecium had gathered around the at this point familiar map of Gherlen's Pass. The conversation, however, was not on the repairs to its fortifications.

"You can't be serious, General." The King shook his head; "Such coincidences do not exist."

"Are you certain about her identity?" Anora asked, her voice calmer, more inquisitive than dismissive as her husband's. Belisarius, the scars and burns no longer immediately visible upon his form - though the patch over where his right eye had once been nestled remained - nodded.

"During her stay, I had First Enchanter Wynne of the Circle of Magi meet with her." Though the elderly woman's reaction to what was apparently an unexpected reunion was, to say the least, not entirely positive. He suspected she had at first thought _his_ men had inflicted the trauma upon Enchanter Fiona; "And of her own account she supports the notion. This is the same Fiona who travelled with your King Maric in the Deep Roads."

"No, I mean, she _cannot_ be the same, General." The King insisted; "My brother...told me of the darker sides to becoming a Grey Warden. Their lifespans, suffer, among other things. Were she the same woman, she ought have been either dead or...or worse off, by now."

Belisarius frowned at the King's words, though his lack of eyebrows likely made it easy to miss for either monarch. These things, the secrets of the Grey Wardens, were unknowns to him. Perhaps, upon her arrival and should she be grateful, Princess Talia might indulge his curiosity. If not, he could find out otherwise.

"She is no longer a Grey Warden, Majesty." He said, and the Cousland fell silent, as if struck; "Though I have as of yet been unable to ascertain exactly how. I am not given mandate to torture my prisoners, and she will say no more without."

"Pardon my asking, General, but what exactly do you plan on doing with her then?" Anora asked, though it was clear she was dissatisfied with his own lack of information; "There are at present too few Templars left in Denerim to reliably hold an enemy mage."

"She'll not want to escape, I think." Belisarius muttered; "From what my men have been able to gather, someone intercepted her formation on the road to Denerim. As far as she was concerned, she's the only survivor, though I have had it confirmed by General Tullus of the Tenth Legion that her liege, Gaspard de Chalons, survived ...It is likely the work of Alma."

"Alma..." Fergus' expression darkened, if only for the briefest of moments; "The woman stalking my sister-in-law, you mean?"

"You have not yet been able to locate her?" Anora inquired; "I find it disconcerting to have a figure of such power running about without oversight, or clear motivations. Why dare an attack on Gaspard's troops if she did not mean to take him out?"

"Hard to say." Belisarius said; "We still need-"

A snap of air, like the breaking of its very essence, heralded a relief that he would not admit to, in that very moment. Both Fereldans flinched at the sudden intrusion, though he merely smiled, a gesture he could now afford without causing himself pain. First Enchanter Wynne was, for all she was a staunch supporter of the Circle, a blessing.

" _Belisarius_." The visage of Tullus was unmarred by scars or wounds, and his armor was undented and unbroken. He was unharmed; " _You have company, should I reestablish contact at a later date?"_

"General Tullus." The Imperial straightened, and the ease with which he could do so was still a newfound relief; "Present with me is King Fergus Cousland and Queen Anora Mac Tir, my current and most gracious hosts."

" _I see."_ Tullus grinned, offering both a curt nod. Even then he towered above them, like the Qunari Warden at the compound. That he wore a whole bear's pelt on his shoulders only accentuated the image of a giant; _"I am honored, Majesties. I am Gratianus Tullus, Supreme Commander of the Tenth Legion of his Excellency, Titus Mede the Second's mercy. My forces are currently encamped in northern Orlais, recovering from battle."_

"So, Gaspard's forces couldn't quite get rid of you, I take it?" Belisarius said, a rare smile on his lips; "It is good to see you whole and unharmed. Not that I thought Orlais actually capable of besting you."

" _Not for lack of trying, though it wasn't Gaspard._ " The bear of a man noted; " _Gaspard agreed to a cessation of hostilities, but a member of his retinue cut him down for it. Gaspard lives, and is currently my esteemed guest... This does present an unexpected problem, however."_

"Wait, General..." Anora stepped closer to the apparition, drawing its ghostly eyes on her. She seemed hesitant, and when she spoke the words came only slowly, like she dared not speak them; "You said...Gaspard agreed to a cessation of hostilities?"

" _Ah, yes, about that..."_ Tullus' grin took on an almost sheepish character; _"I'm aware the Orlesians have made a right mess of your forces, and that the Chantry's been playing with fire, literally. The terms for peace that I was to offer Gaspard, however, was that he was offered a white peace. The Empire's not going to pursue him, nor any of his officers for the incursion. The Emperor wants to protect Ferelden, not destabilize Orlais."_

"Generous of you." Fergus noted, his words dry. He was a hard man to read in that moment, seemingly caught between elation at the war's end, and disappointment that the end brought them no recompense; "I will not lie and claim that I am happy with the notion of Orlais coming out of this unscathed...but it has been primarily your forces doing the fighting, that is beyond argument, and you have ensured the sovereignty of Ferelden where it would otherwise have been robbed away...If this is the decision of your Emperor, I will respect it."

" _I understand your situation, Majesty."_ Tullus said; " _Though I am glad you will not argue the point of reparations. I expect the Empire will provide aid in that regard anyway, though I'm not privy to much regarding the Fereldan theatre. Take relief in the war's end, at least, and enjoy the fruits of peace, however tenuous they may be."_

"Tullus, you said a member of Gaspard's retinue tried to kill him." Belisarius spoke again, changing the subject. The larger man shrugged.

" _That's the thing...Far as we can tell, the attempt was planned out long before I ever met Gaspard."_ There was frustration in Tullus' eyes, he could see it now, that something had slipped him by and shat in his rations; " _A raven arrived from Val Royeaux, apparently some sort of sacred messenger bird from the Chantry, sent by someone called a 'Seeker'. Bernard - that's the fucker's name by the way - had been invited in for a private audience with Divine Beatrix just before he took off for the campaign against us. Ostensibly it was to help him get over the trashing he got at Gherlen's Pass, by your boys and girls. But Gaspard says the man returned to his side...changed, somehow. Not just trauma from defeat, something else..._ "

"The Divine is a skilled player of the Orlesian Game..." Anora muttered; "My father used to complain how it tainted even the Chantry, political intrigues and backstabbing galore..."

"Sharp man, your father." Belisarius noted. How he would have loved to meet Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of the Dane, the man who pulled victories from where there really shouldn't have been anything but atrocious defeat. The Blight had put an end to all that.

" _Indeed, Gaspard actually told me much the same."_ Tullus said; " _That she moves around people like pawns on a board, manipulating and scheming. Odd thing strikes me is, she's apparently pretty old and supposed to be near dementia. Crafty old bitch, if that's true."_

"She seemed very much present when she visited Denerim." Anora pointed out; "I saw no trace of mental illness in the way she moved, behaved or spoke."

"There were tears in her eyes when she addressed me last." The Imperial said, drawing eyes; "There were more important things to deal with at the time, it slipped my mind."

" _Last shreds of her consciousness fleeing, perhaps?"_ Tullus frowned; " _Still, it is likely she is behind the attempt on your life as well, old friend. How's the burns, by the way?"_

"Better." He smiled, aware that the missing teeth had not yet grown back out, even with Wynne's ministrations; "First Enchanter Wynne of the Kinloch Circle of Magi proved an excellent healer in her short stay. I no longer require a cane, though the eyepatch is, I'm afraid, here to stay."

" _Ah, leave it be, makes you look ten times fiercer anyways."_ The larger man chuckled; " _Anyway...problem right now is that everyone but the Orlesians we took captive now believes Gaspard dead, which leaves Orlais more or less in the hands of Divine Beatrix, especially since the dumb bastard didn't marry or knock up someone at court before he left. He's heirless, and it'll be snatched on, even I can tell that much."_

"You mean the war's not really over then, if Divine Beatrix now holds power in Orlais..." Anora sighed; "Maker's Breath, how has it come to this madness..."

" _Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Majesty."_ Tullus said; _"Even the Divine's as human as you and me. Bloody stupid concept anyways, Divines, but if that's how your faith does it, power to it, I suppose..."_

"Religious fanatics still flock in streams from the Free Marches to Orlais." Fergus muttered; "It'll not be long before another force assails our borders, if this drags on."

"True." Belisarius nodded; "We need to end this conflict before half the continent's dead."

" _Indeed, and I have a proposition to make on that account."_ All eyes now turned to the ethereal General, hands clasped behind his back as he watched them in turn; _"My own forces are too battered to launch an attack on Val Royeaux as it stands, and attacking with the Aviatorii risks destroying the Cathedral itself, which I can imagine would do little to stop the bloodlusting fanatics."_

"Reinforcements from Tamriel?" Belisarius asked.

" _Can't be dispatched until Spring."_ Tullus shook his head; " _And I'd rather not steal men away from the Homeland, if there's other options. Which, actually, there is. One, at least, though it'll probably smart something fierce on your pride."_

"What is it?"

" _You've got a lot of prisoners from the battle of Gherlen's Pass, don't you?"_ Belisarius frowned, understanding dawning the moment the word 'prisoners' left his comrade's lips _; "Technically, they serve Gaspard, who has agreed to peace. Releasing them would not be out of the question."_

"No." It was King Fergus who spoke, drawing the surprised eyes of even his wife. Anora was silent, but her eyes betrayed that she had not expected this. Belisarius held his tongue, this was between Tullus and the King, at least the opening rounds; "You'll have to forgive me, General Tullus, and you, General Belisarius, but you are asking me to release the enemies of my people, freely, to a man just as likely to send them straight back, swords and lances in hands. If Gaspard wants his soldiers back, he can bloody well pay their ransoms."

" _You realize, your Majesty, that without those men, Gaspard is unlikely to retake control over Orlais."_ Tullus' voice had dropped, no longer as jovial as before. It was more akin to a bear than a man now, in size and tone both; _"Divine Beatrix is going to send her fanatics against Ferelden until something gives way, and zealotry rarely does."_

"And we have no guarantee Gaspard won't as well." The King replied, his voice heating; "You don't _know_ Orlais, General. There _isn't_ a word in the common tongue to describe the depths they'll stoop to, if it furthers them in their _Game_. Maker _spit_ on the lot of them, I'd rather take the sword to every Chevalier we've taken prisoner than return them free of charge."

"You believe Gaspard will go back on his word, even with the Legion's presence?" Belisarius asked, arms crossed before him. His eye went between his countryman and his host, settling in the end on the latter; "Even with the trouncing he's just received?"

"If he won't, the nobles will kill him soon enough." Fergus visibly ground his teeth as each word passed his lips; "Orlais...does not work like you think it works, Generals. It is a mass of bickering, backstabbing aristocrats more so than it is a country. They love only to beat down those outside their kinsmen more than to betray their own. The _Game_ is life itself to those in power, and oppression to those without it. Maker's Mercy, their Chevaliers hunt elves for _sport_! I'd sooner trust a real lion not to slaughter me at first chance than I would Orlais."

" _Fergus_." Queen Anora stepped close to her husband, a gentle hand on his arm before she turned to Belisarius and Tullus. Her voice was a great deal calmer, though no less spirited; "Gentlemen, Generals, while your request is not unreasonable, you must understand our position in this as well. Ferelden is in ruin, half the Bannorns, our granaries and fields, were laid to waste in the Blight. We barely have half the army we sent to Ostagar, and even that much drains the remaining fields of hands. Whilst my husband lets passion rule him, he is not wrong in the risk we would take in simply releasing so many Orlesians back into Gaspard's hands."

" _Gaspard knows our strength, the Legion's strength. He knows the Legion is training your army up to our standards."_ Tullus shook his head; " _Only the fanatics will be foolish enough to throw themselves at Ferelden with the Legion at its gate."_

"So what then, once the Legion returns to Tamriel?" Fergus asked, his voice calmer now but heated still; "I cannot in words describe the debt we owe your Emperor, General, but we all know you will not remain to defend us indefinitely. Sooner or later, your forces are needed elsewhere, and Orlais will take advantage of it. It is not a matter of _if_ they will invade us again, only whether or not they will succeed in doing so. Orlais in turmoil is the best Ferelden could ask for."

"It won't be in turmoil long." Belisarius muttered; "Tullus, what'll happen if Gaspard loses out? Divine Beatrix is an old woman, she'll not live that long yet herself."

" _It's likely she or...whomever's really running it all, has someone ready to step in. A marionette, kind of."_ the man snorted; _"Stendarr's arse, do I loathe the Chantry's machinations...no offense, Majesties."_

"None taken..." Anora sighed; "I take it the _marionette_ is an unknown?"

" _Might be."_ Tullus scratched his beard in apparent contemplation; " _Duke who stabbed Gaspard, Bernard his name was...Beatrix might have something planned for him, and we haven't found him 'mongst the dead yet, nor the prisoners. Aviatorii couldn't find him on the roads either, like the bugger's sunken into the ground itself. He'll want Ferelden razed though, that's for certain. Gaspard's the safer bet, saner at least."_

"So you give us only the choice between a rational conqueror, and an Exalted March that won't end until Ferelden is a pyre?" Fergus asked. His face had lost its color, perhaps upon the dreaded realization. Belisarius too, felt his mood die as he understood the implications. The King wasn't wrong, exactly. If it wasn't for the Legion, he somehow doubted Gaspard or any other Orlesians would hold to their word for long; "I would call it heartless, but far worse than that, I fear it is idealism. You think mere words and promises will bind Orlais to peace, whereas we in Ferelden know it will not. Only the doom of the world itself could distract them from conquest."

Tullus smiled at this, _smiled_ , and Belisarius wondered. What could make the Bear smile at such words? It wasn't like...his mind paused here, not daring to proceed. He knew what could perfectly well constitute the _doom of the world_ , and so did Tullus, but...

"What did you tell Gaspard, Tullus?" he asked, tired, weary of the stress and the war, of Thedas as a whole. Tamriel beckoned, even if it meant war with the Dominion on the horizon; "What did you reveal to him?"

" _We spoke with the Emperor, both of us."_ The words, at first, did not make any sense. Then they struck him, hard, with understanding of what his friend truly meant, but it was the words that followed, that truly made him certain; _"Gaspard's convinced."_

"Of what?" Anora asked, though her voice betrayed that she wished to demand; "What could your Emperor have said that convinced Gaspard?"

Belisarius sighed.

"The Thalmor..." he said, directing his words to all in the room; "You told him of the Thalmor, of their plans."

" _Before you complain too much, it was his Excellency who told Gaspard of the Thalmor."_ Tullus shrugged; " _I only filled out some blanks afterwards, the odd question. Funny thing, evil elves bent on the world's end isn't really an abhorrent thought to the Chantry."_

"Well, that's comforting..." the General muttered, turning his eye to the monarchs; "I believe I've already mentioned the Thalmor to you before"

"That you were at war with them." The King nodded, his temper cooled; "They despised the idea of a human ascending to godhood."

"That's...part of it." A glance to Tullus earned him nothing but a nod. Apparently this was permissible, to reveal such things to people without ties to the conflict itself. Though, in truth, he knew _everyone_ had ties to the conflict, whether they knew of it or not. There was no bystander in this, no one who could simply move away from the fighting. No one safe in blessed ignorance; "In the years since the Great War, the Penitus Oculatus...Imperial Intelligence, of a sort, started uncovering things about the Thalmor's plans that...we really didn't want to know..."

" _Slant-eared fucks wanna end the world."_ His kinsman cracked knuckles as he spoke; " _At the start it was very much a secret, even from the Legion. Only the Elder Council was made aware, and even then it was pretty selective. Belisarius here got inducted about fifteen years ago, myself at ten."_

He had expected outbursts, yet instead there was only silence. Fergus' face was stone, whilst Anora's mouth seemed to believe it spoke, yet no sound passed as her jaws worked. And they didn't even fully understand yet. How could they, when the truth went against their very faith? He could see the question well enough in their eyes, though, an ever-present _how?_ and _why?_ Was he really so weathered that he considered such ignorance a kind of innocence?

"The Thalmor are not a race, but a faction within the High Elves..." to even begin to explain, it was hard; "They hold the belief that the creation of Mundus, the mortal realm, was a sort of crime wrought against them by Lorkhan, the spirit whose lingering body now makes up Masser and Secunda, whilst his heart-"

" _You're getting off topic, Cecium."_

"...Yes." but he had never even broached Lorkhan with either Fereldan, and for them to fathom the motives of the Thalmor, they needed to know, to understand even if they did not believe; "Upon the world's creation, it was... _anchored_ , in a sense, by Towers, like fastening your tent to the ground with spikes. The Thalmor believe that, if all these Towers are brought to ruin, the world itself will cease to be."

"Maker's Breath..." Fergus muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His tone was not one of convinced shock, but rather frustration; "That's...I'm not sure I understand, do they want to die, for all the _world_ to die? Are they even right, that destroying such towers would do it?"

"Thedas is not alone in its share of zealots and fanatics." Belisarius sighed; "For Tamriel, the Thalmor are by far the worst. They hold the reins of the Dominion, the High Elves, and believe fully in their supposed destiny, to ascend and become...spirits. To them, the mortal realm was a mistake."

" _And they couldn't give less fucks if anyone else disagrees."_ Tullus said; " _Lately there's been signs they're ready to pick up where they left off. Those Towers? One of them is in the Imperial City, the White-Gold Tower. They nearly destroyed it during the Great War. They'll try again, and again. Compared to the threat they pose, Orlais pales. It's still not entirely confirmed where the rest are, though we know a few have already been lost."_

"The most powerful nation in Thedas... _pales_ , next to the Thalmor?" Anora repeated the words as if they were not in a language she knew; "What of the Empire? Do you pale next to them too?"

"Hardly." The General snorted; "But, we're not superior either. Were we, the Summerset Isles would have been ablaze by now. Rather, we're deadlocked, to my knowledge. The Dominion lacks our numbers, but their mages make ours seem amateurish. During the Great War, entire Cohorts would be dedicated to the destruction of a single of their battlemages. They can snap reality apart with a wave of their hands, boil men in their hundreds with a gesture..."

" _And they cheat like bitches."_ Tullus spat; " _During the War, we found out they could basically watch everything the Legion was doing. They had this orb, a Daedric Artifact that gave them omniscience...real hard to plan against an enemy who can see your every move."_

"Talia..." Fergus started, a fist before his chin; "My sister-in-law, she would speak highly of the Legions. In the start I thought it was...some kind of fanaticism, Blind devotion... I did not imagine that it was true...But, even then, Orlais does not respect a treaty it believes it can later break and win. If your soldiers return to Tamriel, we would be more than hard-pressed to stand against Gaspard, or whomever succeeds him in this mess."

" _Ah, right."_ Tullus scratched his ear like a caught-out child; _"Should've probably mentioned this. Belisarius, I've sent your Aviatorii back. They're carrying one of my Immunes, a blackpowder specialist. Majesties, the man I speak of is a forge-apprentice to_ _Malog-al Baruuf himself. He knows the making of firearms, and the explosive powder that goes with them. He will teach your smiths the making of handcannons, weapons Gaspard now rightly fears."_

Malog-al? The Head of Imperial Arms development was a known figure, even amongst those who never cared much for politics nor military matters. The Orc was...eccentric, to be blunt. He possessed an unrivaled understanding of metallurgy, it was true, but at the same time he was known for being less than cautious in pursuit of innovations. Of course he'd been the one behind Tullus' new toys...

"Handcannons?" Anora asked, her head tilted just enough that it was clear she had no point of reference for the word. Fergus, meanwhile, held up a hand as if he wondered how it could become a weapon to surpass Chevaliers. Belisarius was, himself, still not entirely caught up with their making, having departed before the first samples had seen action; "I do not know what that is, I'm afraid."

" _It's a boomstick, a metal tube slapped on a crossbow's stock. You shove blackpowder and a ball down the barrel and take a spark to it. Ball goes flying, ideally through the bad guys. "_ The General seemed pleased with himself, just as both royals seemed in disbelief _; "Empire's used regular cannons for some time on ships, it's just recently we've started introducing them on the field. I've tested them on Gaspard's Chevaliers, and the results speak for themselves. We won, and the Orlesians shat themselves."_

"It will be easier to explain upon the Immune's arrival." Belisarius said, when it was clear no confusion was erased; "Suffice to say, gather the brightest of your forge-masters and engineers and alchemists. If Tullus isn't full of hot air, you'll need them shortly."

" _And step up your iron mines, if you have them."_ Tullus said; " _Knowledge won't do much good if you can't make the damn things. Iron or lead for the slugs, and iron and bronze for the arms themselves. Rejoice, Majesties, for peace is upon you, and will be kept by fire and blackpowder."_

* * *

It was later that evening, late enough that it was near to midnight. Belisarius wandered the hallways of the Royal Palace, freed from the cane and from the guards hovering like mother hens, eternally watchful if he should stumble. It was no lie when he had praised First Enchanter Wynne for her work, she was indeed a worker of miracles that outdid the Legion's own healers.

But then, of them all it was only the Circle mages who understood Lyrium. The mineral yet baffled him, so unlike anything he knew from Tamriel. Nothing back home was this corrosive or toxic to the mere touch, and still used in potions. At least, to his knowledge. Far be it though, maybe the alchemists of the Cynod drenched themselves in all kinds of poultices, brewed on the worst kinds of poisons.

"General Belisarius, Ser?" his ponderings were interrupted as a servant approached him, one of the elven ones. It was still a strange sight, even now, to behold the elves of Thedas. They appeared like human children almost, but for the ears and their lither build. They were unquestionably adults, and yet seemed as weak and fragile as a child, a youth at best. The slanted ears were, of course, another indicator to their inhumanity. He stopped, regarding her with a nod.

"Yes?"

"A Revered Mother from the Cathedral wishes to speak with you, Ser." Just as he had not yet become entirely used to the elves of this land, it seemed the same was true in kind. His gaze made the smaller woman lock up, freezing like a doe before the hunter's arrow. Was he truly so scary to behold, with the multitudes of scars and the eyepatch? That a Revered Mother wished to speak with him, however, only seemed to make those very scars itch. His dealings with the clergy had not exactly brought him the best of fortunes, to put it mildly.

Still, if he ended up a paranoid wreck, he would be of little use to anyone.

"Tell the guards to search her for weapons or poisons, then lead her to my chambers..." he was resigned then, that at best he would be forced to deal with a Chantry representative. Hopefully it had nothing to do with their internal squabbles, from which he'd rather be well and far removed; "Do you know where that is?"

"I do, Ser."

"Off with you then, if you please..." Gods, he just wanted to be free of it all, the Chantry and its machinations. It had all sounded so much more simple when he received his mandate, to go and wipe out the Darkspawn before they overwhelmed Ferelden entirely. And yet, here he was now, trying to keep the entirety of Thedas from pounding on it like carrion crows.

Of course, even without the Chantry, Gaspard had still been a problem. A problem Tullus had apparently managed to solve, much to the man's credit. Beating Orlais in the field was, apparently, no easy task, yet also no less doable for it. That he'd done it with a four to one disadvantage, however, was the part that yet surprised him. Even for Tullus the Shield, that was a tall order.

As always, his door was flanked by two of the Evocatii Guard, masked and unmoving, he knew they unnerved even the other Palace Guard, to say nothing of the servants. He knew the men found amusement in their effect on others, and allowed them to do so. No matter how drilled, no matter how deep to the core a man was a soldier, he was still a man. Flesh, blood and mind, and the mind needed its diversions.

Within his office, though hardly as worthy of name as his old had been, Belisarius allowed himself to sink into the cushioned chair given him when mere touch caused him pain. He'd not felt like relinquishing it though, taking what luxuries he could get away with. A soft and padded chair was definitely amongst those, and a rare enough thing within the Legion that he knew its worth.

It was not long before hard knuckles tapped the door, the rhythm and power entirely recognizable as one of his guards. When you spent enough time around certain people, you started noticing their footsteps or the way they breathed. Or, in his case, the way they knocked on his door.

"Enter."

The Revered Mother was an elderly woman, as he'd found to be the case amongst most of them. In typical Chantry fashion, all but her face was covered up beneath the white-red robes of the clergy. Weary, green eyes regarded him as the servant bowed one last time before closing the door behind her, leaving them in silence.

"Revered Mother." Belisarius greeted her, though he did not rise; "To what do I owe a visit from one of the Chantry's chosen?"

There was a moment which seemed to stretch, in which she did not speak, only regarding him in a manner not entirely unlike how a cat would an animal it wasn't yet sure was prey or not. It made his skin itch, and he idly wondered, if this _was_ an assassin, could he overpower her in his current state?

Then she sat, taking one of the simpler chairs for herself, and he felt himself breathe a little easier.

"Tell me, General Belisarius, how well do you know the history of this land?"

The question, and that her words bore the odd tilt of Orlesians, caught him a little off guard, though he hid it beneath an unmoving mask. How well did he know Ferelden's history? If she intended on interrogating him on anything older than the Rebellion, she'd find him sadly ignorant on most matters.

"There was a General lost in the Blight, Loghain Mac Tir." The Revered Mother said; "In ways, he was much akin to you, stoic, determined and assured in that his actions ought not be questioned. In the end he succumbed, not to a foe on the field of battle, but one that awaited him where only peace should be."

"I am aware of the fate of the Teyrn." At least, the suspected fate. They'd never found his body, but Envy Demons, what the monstrous creature responsible for the death of Arl Eamon Guerrin had been, were known to keep their preys around only long enough that they could entirely match them. And it had matched Teyrn Loghain _very_ well, apparently. Enough that even Queen Anora couldn't tell them apart.

"Once, he was known to be the Hero of the River Dane, if not of Ferelden as a whole." The old woman went on, and for some reason he was starting to feel decidedly like he was back at the Scriptorium, lectures upon lectures hurled at his mind; "Have you studied the battles of the Rebellion, I wonder? Have you familiarized yourself with its heroes and villains? Those who took the right and the wrong sides of history?"

Belisarius blinked, slightly taken aback.

"...with all due respect, Revered Mother, I've not yet had your name and already you interrogate me so?" he said, suppressing the mounting irritation; "I do not see the purpose for this."

"Apologies, General." She bowed her head in a short dip; "I merely thought it proper that some context be laid. You may call me Alma, as I will call you Belisarius."

"Revered Mother Alma, then..." he nodded, a moment later freezing in place as his mind pieced together the last time he'd heard such a name. An elderly woman, red of hair and green of eyes, with an unmistakably Bretonian accent. He had not foreseen this; "...I see."

The woman flashed him a grin, one that betrayed in its entirety that she knew he'd seen through the disguise. What was more troublesome then, was how the servant could have mistaken her for Denerim's Revered Mother, unless there were more than more.

"Good to see you're still sharp as ever, Belisarius." Alma grinned; "Though before you ask, I actually _was_ a sworn sister of the Chantry for a time, and technically long enough to be a Revered Mother. When you get as old as I am, you either find a hobby or you grow bored."

"I see." He could not find calm nor ease in her mannerisms; "Alma of the Dane, I presume?"

She smiled brightly at that.

"It is good to finally meet you in person, General." Alma said, extending a hand. He, though with some hesitation, reciprocated with his left, not yet trusting in what remained of his right to handle a regular handshake; "Please, relax. We're on the same side, I am no enemy or even threat to you."

That, at least, did put him somewhat more at ease. He'd long known they were aligned more or less the same way, as she had defended Ferelden against both Gaspard and the Darkspawn on at least one occasion each. But still, to be in front of her made him feel like he stood before some monster out of legend, a creature against whom he had no chance but to placate. Fiona's tale was a harrowing one, from the perspective of the Orlesians. An ambush turned slaughter.

"You are a Breton." He cursed the words as soon as they left him, wishing it had been something less obvious; "But you've been in Ferelden for decades, if you really _did_ partake in the battle of River Dane. How?"

"Much like the girl you covet for her powers, I was not exactly asked before fate dropped me off in Ferelden." The old smile was almost melancholic, like she truly was no more than an old, sentimental lady; "Long ago now, so very long, it feels like several lifetimes since I last sat foot on Tamriel. A spell went awry, that's as far as my knowledge extends."

"You mean Talia Aulus." He would not deny that he sought the girl's powers, for the boon they could be to the Legion in its defense of Ferelden, and more, and it seemed a petty thing to argue that he outright coveted her on such grounds. More so the pity that he suspected she would be hesitant to depart from Ferelden, should the Empire request her presence in the war to come; "You've been seen with her across Ferelden, yet no one who knows her know you. Why do you follow her, or is it simple coincidence?"

She looked tired, then, the old being. Weary of perhaps his questions, or of something else.

"...General, neither of us are fools. Don't wrap up your questions." She said; "I am here to slake your curiosity, and finally have some privacy. Being spied on by an Imperial General was fun, at first...but having to look over your shoulder when you're taking a shit in the woods is...less so. When I have answered what questions I will, I expect something in turn, beyond that you call off your spies."

"And what..." he watched her as he spoke, gauging for her thoughts; "...would you want in return, assuming you're willing to answer enough that I agree?"

"You have Enchanter Fiona of Montsimmard in your custody. I would like her pardoned." He would confess, he'd expected much, but not such a request. Wasn't she herself the reason they now held the elven mage in captivity? Hadn't she butchered the rest of the Orlesian ambush force? The request itself was not so entirely simple as had Fiona been a regular soldier. Mages adhered to the Chantry, and right now it was entirely up in the air what that entailed; "And I would like for you to give Talia a message for me, once she arrives here."

Belisarius nodded to that, the demands were easily met in truth, though he would have to work with the Fereldans concerning Fiona. It really was no simple matter to have enemy combatants released when their status as enemies or no was up in the air. Still, it was doable.

"I can agree to your terms."

"I thought you might, given I'm not really asking for much." Alma snorted, a gesture that entirely ruined and yet somehow reinforced the image of such a powerful entity. He hesitated to merely refer to her as a woman, much as she looked the part; "So, ask away."

"I'd...have liked some preparation." He admitted, leaning back in his chair; "But...I don't suppose your real identity, name and such, is an open topic?"

"I have been Alma for as long as I can remember." She responded easily, enough that he could tell it wasn't entirely a lie, but also not the truth; "I have been Alma of the Dane for the last thirty years, if you want the title added on too. Loghain Mac Tir knighted me, after I crushed the Orlesian flank in person."

"Fiona said you'd referred to yourself as the 'Spirit of River Dane', though."

"I used magic." A smile that hid away something sinister beneath it, what exactly he couldn't tell; "A _lot_ of magic. Name ended up sticking, on both sides of the war. I became a boogeyman to Orlais, and a beacon of sorts to Fereldans. Loghain was just happy he finally had a battlemage on hand who could go for more than three or four spells."

"Do you know what happened to Teyrn Loghain, after Ostagar?" It almost sounded as if they were familiar with one another, or at least had been; "Where he is now?"

"I don't." the smile was gone now, genuine sadness in its place, or maybe just regret; "I saw him last on the eve before the final battle at Ostagar, a reunion I suspected at the time was also farewell. You know of the Envy Demon that hit the market?"

"It bore his visage, yes."

"Envy Demons are some terrifying little shits..." she muttered; "They snatch you up and carry you off, to no one knows where, and suck all your memories out of you, until they _become_ you, for all to see. What's left is...not a person, not alive and not dead, just...a thing, a shell. I hope Loghain died, rather than be left like that."

Demons, for all the Chantry might disagree, only ever sounded more and more like Daedra, though of sorts he couldn't recognize. The notion was a chilling one all the same, that a demon could take a person's appearance and memories, and become them in the eyes of all others.

"Denerim was not devoid of Templars at the time though." He pointed out; "Why couldn't they sense the demon? Is that not part of what they do?"

"You'd think so, but no." Alma scoffed; "They can sense the connection between our world and the Fade, I think, so whenever someone's using magic they can tell. But if the demon's here already, and the hole in the Veil's closed, they can't sense diddly dick. They just don't tell people that, so no one goes around thinking there could be demons 'round every corner, because the Templars are around too and they're not saying a damn thing...Well, that and very few people actually understand what demons _are_ , beyond that they're bad things and scare children."

"They are like Daedra, I've gathered."

"...more or less, yeah." She shrugged; "We Tamrielans don't exactly go to the Fade when we sleep, we don't see the same things. We're also not in risk of being possessed, so, you know, yay us."

"The Fade... _is_ it a plane of Oblivion?" he could not help the question, though it had little if anything to do with her. It was obvious that Alma had been in Thedas more than just a few decades, and she _knew_ things. It was a unique position that allowed her to piece together aspects of magic and the otherworldly from the perspectives of two cultures. His curiosity demanded satisfaction.

"I think so?" there was an odd moment of actual confusion etched in her features, as if she had not expected such a question; "It sounds about right, but I've never found out which Prince it should belong to, if it is. Far's I know all the bad ones have their planes already, and the benevolent ones don't exactly spit out monsters...I think, again I've no actual idea. I thought you had questions about _me_ , not theology?"

A small grin slipped his grasp.

"Personal curiosity..." why was it suddenly so hard to concentrate on what was before him? Alma, the agent his men had been stalking for months, was here, now, in the room with him, and willing to talk! This was no time for idle contemplation; "Why are you so focused on Princess Talia Aulus?"

"...suddenly I wish you'd kept to the theological bullshit." Alma huffed, crossing her legs where she sat; "You are aware of her gift, the powers she used to beat the Archdemon into minced meat?"

"Draconic shapeshifting, yes." He nodded, a little uneasy at her hesitation. Was he entering areas where she would simply leave, and say no more? Worst part was Pullo could've probably done a better job of asking, but the man was nowhere to be found when he was needed. Naturally; "It's a rare ability" _And powerful enough that until your interference, the Legion considered requesting her assistance in the war, Warden or no._

"It is not an ability she merely picked up on her travels, though in a sense it very much is." She said; "Talia and myself both share in a similar power, granted through our blood-ties with Hakkon Wintersbreath."

"A mage?" No, wait, that wouldn't make much sense. Blood-ties with mages or wizards would not usually produce such powers; "...a dragon?"

"Dragon." Despite the implications, Alma seemed of no particular concern in admitting to it. Belisarius sank into his chair, feeling the years suddenly weighing down on him; "One of the rare cases where a male dragon grows to almost rival High Dragons in size. He's old, old enough that he knew the Tevinter Gods before the Blights began. I know those eyes of yours, General. _Eye_ of yours." He did not flinch when he realized hers were locked on his, and that there was something distinctly...off, about them. It did not stop the unease in his guts though, however stoic he could appear; "You wonder, has Talia Aulus become a Dragon Priest? Am I a Dragon Priest?"

"...are you?"

"No." he could breathe again, even if he had no proof that she spoke the truth. Something in his soul told him she had no need of lying, much as his mind protested it; "It is something...different. I think the best way to describe it is that we provide an old soul company, give him an idea of what's going on in the outside world, and he allows us to tap a fraction of his powers."

"Just for that, he shares his powers?" Belisarius frowned, trying to gauge if he was being had. The woman merely shrugged;

"Dragons are social creatures, the sentient ones especially." She smiled; "They like company, doesn't have to be other dragons."

"The Thu'um." He recalled the Miracle at Highever. It was Alma, then as well, who used powers only Tongues and Dragonborns ought have, and he knew the latter was with Tulius; "You used it at Highever. Does this bond with Hakkon make you a Tongue?"

"Tongues have the faintest clue what they're doing, I think." Alma shrugged again as if it was of no importance; "I can _literally_ only do it because of Hakkon. Even if I knew the words by heart, without him I'd just be this crazed old lady yelling at the skies."

"So, your interest in Lady Aulus is purely out of a shared tie with a Dragon?"

"Sure, why not?" she hummed; "I'd like for her to know what she's dealing with, rather than...going in blind, kind of. She's not my apprentice, gods know she's too bullheaded for my liking. I've taught her some things, mostly out of kinship, Breton to Breton. I was born in Bankorai too, so it's a bit like me paying my respects to her family, teaching her not to get her ass killed."

"And yet you keep entirely quiet from the Empire? No one knew about your being here, or Thedas at all until last year." What she said was not consistent, that she did it for the Aulus House but at the same time seemed to owe no fealty to the Empire itself? It didn't add up to him, and he knew what he said next would be a gamble; "...The Empire could make use of a mage as powerful as yourself."

"And it is, right now." The levity was gone from her voice now, like a fire snuffed by the wind; "I am its guarantee that Ferelden stays independent of Orlais. I break whatever threatens Ferelden, because it is my home."

"The Empire is your home." He said, though even he could hear the statement lacked conviction. Was it really her home, if she seemed to want nothing to do with it?

"General...I've been here so long, I don't much even _remember_ the Empire anymore." She sighed; "It's an idea, a dream of something long past. I have no living kin in the Empire, no House or comrades. Here, I have an apothecary in Oxford. I have acquaintances and friends in Denerim, Redcliffe and Highever. I have decades of memories in Ferelden, and none at all from the Empire."

"So, you have no loyalty at all to the Empire?" he knew it was a bitter question to ask, and an ungrateful one at that. She'd done enough to prove where at least her interests lay, but it was confirmation he needed, if not for himself then for the record; "To the Emperor?"

"I do." He blinked, his one eye narrowing; "I've paid attention when people talk, especially of the Thalmor, and the Great War. Your soldiers are loose-lipped, General. The Empire's the only real force capable of stopping them if they try again at... _whatever_ they're going to try and accomplish. They'll be fucking idiots to try and conquer Tamriel, given how everyone _hates_ their guts..."

"But you won't return to Tamriel."

"Nothing for me there, like I said." Alma shrugged; "My place is here, keeping Ferelden nice and tidy. Means you don't have to retain soldiers here when you're done whipping the Royal Army into shape, I guess... But, I think I'm starting to get all melancholic. Your fault, by the way. One last question, then time's up."

One last question? He frowned. What could he possibly ask as the final question, when he yet had so many? Among them, why she had not at all contacted the King or the Queen, when she spoke of protecting Ferelden. Even then, there was another he needed to ask.

"What ties you with Enchanter Fiona?" it was not the most important of questions he yet had for her, but it was part of her demands. He had to understand why; "Why do you want her pardoned when the Chantry seems ready to resume an Exalted March, and she adheres to it, rather than Gaspard?"

He had not expected that the question, of all he could and had asked, would make the older woman blanch. Her expression grew tight, her lips little but a thin line as her eyes sought the wall. Was there something deeper to her request for Fiona's freedom than he'd assumed?

"...do you have children, General Belisarius?"

Though, he would admit her own question caught him just as much out. With one eye he stared at her for the longest moment, trying at first to discern whether the question was a jest. When no sign of levity appeared, he had to ask himself, _why_? Why was this important? Was she related to Fiona? He threw the notion out as fast as it had come to him, aware of its impossibility.

"I do not." He finally admitted, unable to tell wherefrom the question had come. In response, she merely sighed, shaking her head.

"Then you would not understand." She said, rising to her feet. A scrap of parchment appeared in her hand, though he was almost certain she'd not once withdrawn it from her robes. Not that Chantry robes _had_ any pockets or the like, nor any folds or immediate openings to store such in. It was a small thing, rolled up and sealed with common string, as if it was a mere grocery note; "Please give this to Talia when she arrives, I'll be gone by then. Provided you'll honor your part of the agreement?"

"Will you return to Oxford?" he asked instead, rising from his own chair. Cold, green eyes met him; "Your demands are acceptable, to a point." He reassured her; "Fiona has cooperated with my men, and she will be pardoned. For her own sake, however, she will not be permitted leave back to Orlais...not until peace is restored."

"And the spying?" she said; "I will not tolerate it again."

"Your visit has made it unnecessary." He sighed, keenly aware that her wrath might be more easily provoked than he'd like; "Though it might then be for the best that you keep someone at Court informed of your whereabouts. You've not made contact with the King or Queen?"

"No." Alma fixated him once more, eyes that bore inhuman strength willing his own away. He did, however, catch what could have been regret in the cold, green depths; "I do not have to meet them to keep them safe."

* * *

 **Good gods I was not happy with how long this thing took to get done.**

 **The worst part is it was practically done two weeks ago, but I kept getting uncomfortable with how it felt, how it read and whether or not Alma would come off as some "Look at me I'm mysterious and cewl" shit. I am not good with chapters that deal with revelations or surprises, primarily because it requires an understanding of human reactions to surprising things, something I'm not entirely fond of trying to get a handle on.**

 **So...yes, more or less just a fluff chapter, after all that wait. I ask forgiveness and hope to have the next one out sooner, and with less...just talking.**


	60. Mother's Grief

**Ah, this one was quite a bit faster to get typed out than last time. Somehow I just knew exactly what should go into it, which parts should be where, all that stuff. A rare thing indeed, for me.**

 **As the title implies, this...is not a light-hearted chapter.**

* * *

 **Mother's Grief**

* * *

It had been almost a week since Varric had last seen the Hawke sisters.

Almost a week, where he'd found himself strangely missing the loud, foul-mouthed Jonah Hawke, and just as much her quieter, more contemplative - and _definitely_ more polite - sister. The Hanged Man seemed empty, almost, without their presence. It had, however, left him with his own thoughts, particularly about the reason they weren't currently around.

He'd sent some feelers out through his contacts, particularly the dwarven merchants of Denerim. The accent was easy enough to tell, that the lad was from the capital. Harder was to pin down why exactly he was in Kirkwall. How did the elves enter the picture? And why was he so damn fast on his feet? A fighter like that was bound to have made a name for himself in the festering underground of any large city, and Denerim had its fair share of that kind, he suspected. People might exaggerate on the corruption in Ferelden, but no place was ever entirely free of criminal gangs and overlords.

No word had come back yet, though. In hindsight it wasn't like he'd really expected it, considering how half of Thedas was out for Fereldan blood these days. Couriers willing to take the route were few and far in between. And expensive. Honestly, why he even bothered with all this digging was beyond him, but a nagging curiosity kept him at the fire, so to speak.

Maybe it was also, in part, because he was starting to worry. Previous jobs hadn't taken this long, and he _had_ been the one to pitch the idea to Jonah, in the end. She wanted in on the expedition, Bartrand needed investors, so she needed cash... He hadn't just sent the girls off with some secret Chantry agent, right? Maybe that's why Daveth was so damn fast, because he was a disguised Templar? Did Ferelden have that kind of agents, or was the accent fake? And then there was Bartrand, going on about some new, potential investor for the expedition. Money like he wouldn't believe, that kind of stuff. It was some northener, far as he could tell, which typically meant either Nevarra or Tevinter. Strangely though, his brother wasn't exactly entirely open about it, not even to him. Still, secrecy or no this meant he might have sent the girls off with some loose crossbow, when suddenly there'd appeared a backer with the coin to hire extra security...

Maker, he'd really stepped in it this time, hadn't he?

The solid, wooden door slammed open with enough force to snap him from his worries. In walked...actually, at first he wasn't entirely sure. He was about to suggest a leper, unmentionable material covering great swathes of the newcomer. Well, leper or Darkspawn, but there'd probably be a bigger fuss on the streets if Darkspawn were walking about. Then Daisy, that damn bear-sized mutt trotted in, tail wagging hard enough that he knew - from experience - it could have knocked him down.

"Oi, no lepers in here." the barkeep barked; "Bring your shit somewhere else, right?"

"Shut the fuck up, Corff." Jonah's voice bit back from somewhere behind all the muck. Considering how much flaked and sloughed off her with every step, it was actually almost impressive she was still this filthy. Varric braced himself, but still felt the physical slap of air when she came close enough, and the smell hit him.

"Corff, if you'd please bring a tub and some hot water to my room?" Varric addressed the barkeep with a politer tone than Hawke had, before turning to the woman in question. Now that she was closer, and Daisy had actually sat down, he could recognize her, especially her dead eyes, blood-shot and drained of soul and life. Still... "Hawke, you've got a little... _lot_ on your... _everywhere_..."

Jonah didn't exactly give him an answer. Instead, her forehead met his table with a resounding _crack_ , and he worried she'd just knocked herself unconscious, until the groaning started. And when it started, it didn't stop for several, long minutes. Honestly it almost sounded like she was on the verge of crying.

"That bad, huh?" he asked, once she'd been reduced to heavy breathing. Her face was still stuck to the table; "Bethany?"

" _Home_." She croaked, her voice sounding like she'd spent uninterrupted hours simply screaming and shouting; " _Sick_. Threw up a lot. Uncle wouldn't let her in the house with clothes on."

"Yeah, I can imagine he'd want them washed..."

" _Burnt_." her voice was like rubbing bricks on the tiles; "Right outside the door, just... _started a fire._ "

"Ah." He shuffled his papers aside, most of them just rough drafts for books to come. One had to be pried out from under Jonah's forehead, and he didn't much like what stuck to it once free; "So, Daveth?"

She actually flinched, just a little, at the name. Oh boy.

"I thought the _Templars_ were bad." He heard her whisper, her face still against his table; "Or the throat-cutter gang..."

"...he's not dead, is he?"

" _Dead_?" she laughed, the sound was dry and uncomfortable; "Not sure if he _can_ die, Varric. We couldn't even _keep up_ with him once he got started...that blade on him, the _curved_ one? He sliced a man to pieces faster than...just, like _that_. Slice-slice-slice, arms and legs, _blood_ _everywhere_. Didn't even faze him..."

A butcher then? He'd like to say he was surprised, but he'd seen the way the Fereldan handled the drunkards at their first meeting. There was a speed and efficiency to it that betrayed deep-seated muscle memory. Daveth was a killer, and an experienced one at that.

The strange thing was, he knew both Hawke sisters were too. Jonah was an apostate, and had more than once ended lives to safeguard her secrets. The same went for Bethany, though he suspected it was once more Jonah who'd done the killing to keep her sister safe in kind.

"...just kept asking 'bout the elves, kept asking 'where's the elves? Where's the elves?' before he cut those thugs open..." a shudder ran her shoulders; "Maker's _Breath_ , Varric, fuck kind of man did you set us up with?"

"I'm starting to wonder that too." He admitted, worry still marring his brow; "He didn't hurt either of you, right?"

"No..." finally, she lifted her face from the table, and propped it up on the back of a hand; "Weirdest thing that, it's like he thought we were too fragile. Kept on checking on us, kept making sure we weren't harmed. I don't think I've ever had a job _this_ easy."

"Aside from the muck." He noted.

"...five days in the sewers, Varric." She muttered; "And there was an apostate mage with them, he threw the whole sewer _at_ us, like a wave of..."

"Shit..." the dwarf muttered, only afterwards aware of his choice of words; "Sounds like you've had a rough day then. Days. So, the job's done? Where's Daveth anyway?"

"Still in the sewers, I think." Hawke sighed; "Job's done though, yeah. We tracked down the slavers. Daveth killed all but the leader. He's still with him, could hear the man's screams for hours through the tunnels. Well..." she drew a breath in, running a hand through the mess of unmentionable liquids that was her hair, and sat up a little more straight; "Least something good came out of it for us."

"Pride in a good day's work done?"

"Well, _that_..." something resembling a smile peered through the mask of muck covering her face, as a fat, leathery pouch of clinging coin was dumped on the table; "And you 'n Bartrand just landed yourselves an investor."

Her smile died somewhat, when he told her of the new investor.

* * *

"Please, I would see the prisoner."

The holding cells of fort Drakon varied greatly in how uncomfortable they were for those so unfortunate to be staying there. In the deepest levels were the cells reserved for traitors, murderers and their ilk, cramped and bare of anything but a bucket. They did not even have straws to make sleep easier on the poor bastards there.

Closer to the entrance, however, the cells were far more civilized. Though still unfortunate, those locked up here at least had a semblance of privacy behind the solid door, rather than the see-through bars below. Bed, sparse furniture and sanitary facilities were likewise offered. Though all of Fort Drakon's residents were supposedly too grim for a common stockade, it happened that exceptions were made, and some comforts retained.

The figure of a Revered Mother stood before one such door, flanked by halberd-wielding guards. Each eyed her with equal parts curiosity and suspicion, knowing the importance of their charge. Outweighing their caution, however, was likely the pity they felt for the woman within. Broken of spirit, she posed little threat to any but the insects accidentally caught beneath her foot. Likewise, it seemed difficult to imagine much risk from allowing in a Revered Mother.

The halberds parted, permitting her entrance.

"I will take her confessions." The woman told them; "Perhaps you could allow us the privacy to do so?"

"She is a battlemage of Orlais, Revered Mother." One of them argued; "Are you sure you will fare well alone?"

"All the more reason she would not harm a servant of the Maker, my child." The old woman smiled warmly; "I will be fine, I know it. She will not harm me." She waved a hand before them, a lazy gesture; "You two could use a break, I think. Find a tavern, and drink to the peace."

"We..." for a moment, the closest guard blinked, as if halfway asleep; "Thom, she's fine on her own. Let's grab a pint."

"Aye..."

Weak amusement shone in emerald eyes as she watched the guards wander off. These spells had never been her greatest strength, but even then it paid dividends to know at least a few of them. The heavy oaken door had only a small hatch in eye-height, wherefrom a guard could peer in. Inside, a single figured sat huddled on the straw-mattress bed, unmoving in the flickering light of a single oil-lit lamp.

Alma paused, hand on the door. A reunion with her old friend would have been less awkward by far if she had not nearly murdered her on the road, and still subjected her to the slaughter of her comrades. She knew it was hypocritical as all hells, because if Fiona hadn't been there she'd have felt absolutely no regret or hesitation. She would have slaughtered them to a man all the same.

Fiona being present had been unexpected, and very nearly gone horribly wrong, and had brought her to this moment. Much like Aedan or Fergus or, Divines forbid, _Eleanor_ , Fiona was not a face she much wanted to see at this very moment. Her guts rolled with shame at how close she'd come to burying her glaive in the elf's chest.

"Fiona of Montsimmard." She let none of her discomfort show, maintaining as best she could the calm, serene posture of a Revered Mother. She'd not lied to Belisarius, there was once a time she'd taken vows in the Chantry of Lothering. Long ago; "May I enter?"

Fiona didn't move a muscle upon hearing her speak. Maybe, possibly, she had not recognized her at the highway. It was the slimmest, most foolishly optimistic shred of hope, and yet she dared to nourish it. Almost a full minute passed before the elven woman gave the slightest of nods, still having moved not at all otherwise.

Complete silence reigned, and Alma was uncertain of where, or how, to even start. Should she maintain the charade of a simple Chantry clerk, or reveal herself? Had Fiona already recognized her? Now, that she was a little closer, some relief did find her heart in seeing the elf at least physically unmarred. Neither Imperials nor Fereldans had harmed her, it seemed.

"How are you feeling?"

" _Alive_." The Breton blinked; she'd honestly not expected an answer.

"Have you been mistreated?" still she could not force herself any closer. It was pathetic, she knew, considering how eagerly she normally invaded people's personal space. Here though, ropes of regret tied her to the ground; "Are they feeding you properly?"

"...why are you here."

Alma hesitated, uncertain of what she meant. Did she recognize her, and if so, did she also recognize her on the Highway? Or was this simply a tired prisoner, too weary by far to deal with the Chantry that had sent her and so many comrades into the maws of death?

"To ensure that you are well." She tried, biting her tongue with frustration and guilt. She'd done this. It was all on her. Fiona had been left this...shell, because of her actions. She could have just gone straight for Gaspard, crippled and beaten him then and there, faster than anyone could have reacted. But no, she'd wanted to show off, and butchered his mage forces like they were gnats before her; "I have good news."

"... _why_ are you here."

Fiona repeated the question again, turning at last to face her. Alma recoiled from the look in her eyes, so entirely broken and devoid of spirit that she seemed almost a corpse. _Recognition_ , in those eyes. Fiona spoke nothing more, but maintained her gaze, unwavering and unblinking, like a monument to her sins. Her own throat felt like parchment, dried up and harsh.

"To see you." She finally managed, each word causing her pain; "I needed to see you. _Needed_...I had to know you were unharmed."

"I'm not." The words were barely more than a whisper, and still Alma dared not move.

"You're alive." She knew the words were wrong as soon as she spoke them, but had no spell to take them back again; "They haven't harmed you?"

" _Alive_." Fiona whispered; "Alive. Yes, I breathe the air. I can move my limbs. Is that alive? I saw Death, it touched me. I should not be alive."

"Fiona..."

"I thought I had gone mad." The elf whispered; "Maybe I have? I saw you. I saw your glaive. I saw you kill Henri, Petra, Sofia...I see you now, Alma of the Dane. Am I mad? Are you even here?"

"I _am_ here, I-"

"I thought, why not me too?" she went on, unperturbed; "Why not kill me too? Why stop, so close the tip of her blade touched by chest when I breathed? Why stop? Why not kill one more, when so many are dead already?"

"I couldn't. I could never..."

"Kill me?" Alma winced, her skin burning with cold. To see such despair in her eyes hurt more than she thought it could have ever done. And she was the cause of it; "Could. Almost did. Stopped, why? Why not kill? Why then kill at all?"

"I didn't think...I didn't _know_ you were with him, with Gaspard." She argued; "Why weren't you in Montsimmard, or the White Spire? You...you're not supposed to be here, you're a Warden!"

This time, at least, Fiona did not give a reply. Her own heart hammered agonizingly away, each strike sending copper to her tongue. This was Aedan, all over again. This was guilt, shame and regret, striking her down like hammerblows.

"Was." the elf finally said; "You of all people ought remember why that changed."

"I didn't know they would kick you out of the Order."

"They kicked you out, didn't they?"

"...you know that's different." Alma muttered; "And you know why I couldn't ever harm you."

"I knew Alma of the Dane, the Grey Warden." Fiona said, quietly; "I'm not sure who _you_ are, though."

"I'm still..." she bit the words down, aware of what she could not take back. No, that path was long and truly behind her, the bridge burnt and ruined. Fiona had made it clear in the Deep Roads, where her affections lay, as they always did; "I'm still your _friend_. I'll _always_ be your friend, Fiona."

"Were you always so...bloodthirsty, too?"

"...not always." She admitted, trying to conceal that the accusation genuinely bit her. She knew she was a monster to many, but...she'd never wanted Fiona to be among them. Death was kinder; "With you, I...was from the start."

"...I know." Fiona huffed, a small exhale of air from her nostrils that seemed almost like a snort; "You've seen me, then. I'm going nowhere. No need to linger."

But there was. There very much was a need for her to linger, much as she dreaded broaching the subject. Fiona did not yet know, because no one else knew of her ties with Alistair Therein. It was cruelty to withhold such news, and just as cruel to deliver them.

"Actually, there is more..." Alma said, her gut coiling and twisting with an emotion as rare for her as dread; "I did not lie when I said I came with news. Gaspard has signed a peace treaty with the Empire, and with Ferelden. The war ended four...maybe five days ago, I'm not entirely sure on the time."

No, this wasn't the important news. But it bought her precious seconds before she had to destroy Fiona's world beyond repair.

"I see." The elf muttered; "...am I to be ransomed, then? Or abandoned."

"Neither." The Breton shook her head; "I made a deal with General Belisarius, the Imperial Commander in Ferelden. You'll be pardoned, but for the time being kept in Denerim. As a mage, you adhere to the Chantry, not the Orlesian military...and Divine Beatrix tried having Gaspard killed, so they're not yet sure if you'll be a risk if let loose."

"Nothing changes, then." Fiona turned her eyes away again, resuming the earlier posture of ignoring the world in favor of the wall; "Was that all?"

Alma swallowed.

"No." her throat swelled, like an infected sore it seemed like air wouldn't pass; "No, there's...something else too..."

* * *

"Okay! Let's try again!"

It had been almost two weeks since the failure of the organ gun. Malog-al ushered the engineers back to safety, the minimum distance having seen some expansion since the last time. They'd changed up the design a bit, trying to lessen the risk to the rest of the cannon barrels in the event of misfires of ruptures. Now, the stacked frame had been switched out for one that rotated on a crank-driven axis, with only four locks in total. That way, misfires or other... _unfortunate_ events, wouldn't cause the rest to explode, and the broken barrels could be taken off.

At least, it'd be that way once they knew it wouldn't explode and kill them all. The whole contraption was bolted and strapped to the ground, and a chain wrapped around the crank-wheel. Malog-al held the end of it, his feet squared. The rotatory frame itself had already been tried and tested, and worked as it ought. The interesting part now, was going to be whether firing cannons from it would wreck the whole thing, reinforced as it was.

"Firing!"

Steadily, slowly, he hauled in the chain, in turn spinning the entire frame about. Once the first set of four reached the top, they clicked into place with an everlastingly satisfying _clonk_. The force of the impact set in motion the four hammers atop the frame, each striking down in...more or less synchronous order. Like last time, initial firing went smoothly. Each cannon barrel belched out an iron slug no larger than a fist, a human one, that was. Sparing the armor, ahead was simply an earthen rampart. This wasn't a test of whether it could kill, but whether it would...well, _not kill_ the gunner along with any targets. The cannonballs plowed into the rampart and remained there, nestled and unmoving through the cascading showers of dirt and soil.

"Next set!"

Of course, for the whole thing to fit on a rotary frame, the amount of cannons had been somewhat reduced. There were just twelve now, secured in sets of four around what had almost been a barrel for center. Stability being favored, they'd opted for a triangular design instead. Also made it easier to stop in case something broke. Which, honestly, he very much expected something _would_.

They didn't exactly have much experience in this. No one had, not even the damned Redguards.

"Firing!"

The second set of cannon barrels barked and belched fire, spraying cones of sparks out with their iron death. The explosions were almost simultaneous, but only _almost_. There was still some delay, a shaking that visibly ruined the aim of two of the barrels. Their balls flew wider, plowing through the upper layers of the rampart high enough that they'd have gone over the heads of any enemies within effective range.

"Next set!"

Once more, the chain was pulled, tug by tug, until the last four cannon barrels fell into position, and the hammers triggered. Here, the aim was even worse, obviously warped by the previous firings. Only one of the iron balls struck within the targeted area, the rest going wide like gravel tossed by hand.

All else was silence as the echoes of thunder dissipated over the hills. Soon enough, the songs of birds resumed, uncaring for the machinations of the larger creatures.

"Well, no exploding barrels this time." The Orc wiped his hands off on his broad, leathery apron; "Progress, people, _progress_. Matis, strap those barrels back in and reload the whole thing. Let's see if the frame can handle a second round."

* * *

There was something oddly...melancholic, about seeing Denerim's walls again.

Even now, months after the battle that ended the Fifth Blight, the walls still bore scars from Darkspawn magics, and the fields beneath them trampled beyond uselessness. The gates had not yet been repaired either, visible even from a distance as a gaping maw where the solid, reinforced doors ought have been. She could see the scars from where Ogres had pried the portcullis out of its place, and the withered and charred remains of the massive, thorny plants Merrill had wrought from the ground.

"It's still a strange thing, isn't it?" Aedan muttered to her left, eyes on the city just like her. They were themselves partially hidden from prying eyes, concealed within the wagon's canopy. Much as Eleanor had done had damnest, it was obvious still that the wagon remained unintended for personal transport, much as it was for goods rather than people. A week's journey had been enough to take in with her own eyes the state of Ferelden, at least the parts untouched by the Blight.

Amaranthine had been packed with refugees then, people driven from homes laid to waste, or those evacuated from Denerim. There still hadn't been much to return to, last she was here. Even with the Legion pitching in, rebuilding was slow. How much of Ferelden was still a wasteland yet? How many Bannorns would need decades, if not more, before the tainted soil could be made fertile again?

"What?" she turned her mind from it, because frankly that kind of thinking was pretty damn depressing, and instead looked to her husband. Like her, he'd donned his Warden armor and regalia once Denerim came within sight. They'd seen in Amaranthine already that people _did_ recognize her, even where she'd never been before. And she didn't much look forward to that kind of attention again. J'zargo, oblivious to it all, snored away where he'd curled up hours ago.

"Seeing Denerim like this...I still half expect to look to my side and find Alistair there." His smile was not a genuine one, obviously. So, melancholy all around, then? Figures, considering how much bad shit had gone down around them, there was always going to be _something_ bad tied to everywhere. Even the halls of Highever still bore the occasional scratches in the masonry, where a sword had deflected off; "Imagine if he was still here, what he'd think about all this? The Empire, the Legion, Gaspard and the Divine, the Exalted March?"

"Daveth running off to Maker knows where..." Talia rubbed her neck, only then aware of which god she'd invoked; "He'd mouth off some asshat puns, probably...hopefully. Wasn't exactly much of a laugh near the end, was he?"

"He still had his moments." Brelyna noted; "He was still there, inside. I think. He'd have come back, out of it. Leliana would have helped him, if she'd made it."

"Can't believe how hard we had to kick his ass to get them in bed together." Talia hummed, a small smile forming; "Dense as bricks didn't even realize it until...a little too late, I suppose."

"Maker's not fond of happy endings, seems like." Aedan muttered.

"Oi." She gave her husband a jab; "Don't jinx it, will you? We're going to find a cure for the Taint, don't need you tempting Mundus and every Daedra with working ears with that pessimism."

"M'Lady is right, young Lord." Ser Royce chuckled from where he sat, at the head of the wagon with reins in hand; "The Maker shines his brightest light on those with faith in it."

"See?" Talia gestured at the knight; "He agrees with me. Ser Jory, you too, right?"

"It's not fair to pull the knights to your side." Aedan scoffed; "And I'm not arguing, I'd like our lives a bit less exciting than they've been so far, too."

"We can make our own excitement, anyway."

"Hopefully the not so violent kind..." Brelyna said, her expression softening as she looked out from the wagon's front; "We're coming up past Victory Hill..."

"I'm still not a fan of that name." Talia muttered. Too much death, too much grief to call it _victory_. Hakkon's sorrow still sat in her bones, even though he'd barely spoken to her since. Alistair's name was etched in stone up there, same with Leliana's, though less glamorously. Her name was simply among the thousands of others, no more or less important. Alistair, Loghain, Eamon; "But, wouldn't be right to just pass him by. The lousy sod would be offended, definitely."

"Definitely." Aedan echoed; "Ser Royce?"

"Making a stop, M'lord." The knight obeyed, turning the wagon to the side of the road. Others passed them by, few enough bothering to stop. Traders, peddlers, peasants, farmers, craftsmen, refugees and all kinds of dregs. Life went on, the pains of the past shoved aside.

Aedan was first out, offering her a hand as she climbed out next. Admittedly she'd have liked to say she didn't _need_ it, but her center of balance _was_ getting more and more offset these days. And, since it was partially _his_ fault, he could do well in helping her where needed. The mail felt heavier on her shoulders now, in part because the belt supposed to support much of the weight no longer reached around, and she'd not dare tighten it anyways. Pregnancy seemed like it had away of arguing against women on the field of battle, no matter her own arguments. Then, she supposed, it was a well and fine thing that she'd rather never _see_ a battlefield again.

There had appeared something of a well-trotted path to the small chapel, or shrine, with fields of wild flowers growing elsewhere, almost as if treated with a strange sort of reverence by the visitors. Seated atop the hill it was obvious that the place had indeed seen visitors aplenty. Last time, they had still been inscribing names. Was that work finished now, or would they still find a worker chiseling letters into the hard stone? She hoped not, for the sheer amount of names that would require. The sheer amount of deaths.

"We're not the only ones up here, looks like." Brelyna was the first to note what the others had already seen. More than a few people were up at the shrine, most of them wearing the King's colors. Palace guard heraldry, even.

"That's the royal colors." Talia said, frowning. Fergus had little cause for visiting the shrine, but Anora? Technically it was where her father's memory was enshrined, regardless of how his life had ended. Few enough knew of his actions at Ostagar that his name was still held in high esteem.

"It could be Anora?" Brelyna echoed her mind, as she damnably often did. Sometimes she suspected there was magic involved, even; "Teagan is not in Denerim, is he? Or Isolde?"

"Not that I know of." Aedan shrugged. It was left unsaid that rumors had started going about, of something _going on_ between the new Arl of Redcliffe, and its Arlessa. Honestly she'd suspected that much since their first meeting. Isolde could have been Eamon's _daughter_ , for all she'd known then. Aedan helped her up the hill, to steep by far for her liking. Oddly enough it hadn't been last time. _You're really messing with mommy's stamina, little one..._

"Hail, Wardens." A woman's voice announced. One of the guards approached them, pausing before offering an unnecessary bow. Talia would admit to some surprise at recognizing Ser Mhairi leading what appeared to be a squad of knights, each clad in plate with the royal crest emblazed on their tabards; "Lord and Lady Cousland, Lady Maryon. You are expected at the Palace, I believe."

"Ser Mhairi, greetings." Aedan nodded to her, a sign of deference Talia mirrored. Brelyna waved; "Is the King or Queen inside?"

"Hardly." The knight waved it off; "We're escorting a royal guest. It´s par for the course these days, she's up here almost every day. Has been, for the last week almost."

That...was not what she'd expected to hear. Honestly, it seemed none of them had. Royal guests or no, to spend so much time here, it spoke of grievous loss. Talia hesitated entering, her mind refusing to let the subject go. The Blight had struck Ferelden like a deliberately evil force of nature, tearing families apart. It hadn't differentiated between noble and peasant, clearly.

"Go on in." Mhairi said; "Just...be quiet, if you please. It's enough to deal with already."

Inside the main chamber, it seemed every surface bar the floor had been covered to the absolutely last inch with names. By some stroke of the mason's skill, not a single letter overlapped, yet from a distance it seemed more like an elaborate pattern than actual writing. Candleflames danced and flickered with the wind as she walked past, wax running in fat droplets down the black iron sticks.

A lone woman inhabited the chamber, unmoving and unresponsive to their entrance. For all but a moment, Talia was about to take her for a child, until she saw the ears. Slanted and elven, it proved a greater surprise for the fine clothes the woman wore. Wealthy elves was not a common sight, even though they by all rights held most of the same rights as Ferelden's humans, even before the Blight.

After the Dalish had thrown themselves at the Darkspawn outside the very walls of Denerim, much of the old resentment seemed to have vanished into thin air. It was a strange sense of gratitude, that the recipients didn't seem to know what to do with.

It was odd, having to remain quiet. It seemed wrong, almost, to hold some sort of deferent silence where Alistair would have preferred laughter and banter. But the elven woman stood far too near for them to even whisper without disturbing her. Alistair and Leliana, they were both here, in spirit if nothing else. _If the Maker is real, they're with him. Divines know they earned it. If he's not real, they're commended to Aetherius. I hope...Are you up there, Alistair? Together at last, even if it had to be in death?_

Several minutes passed by in silence, respectful both of the dead and the living. Talia was, towards the end, becoming keenly aware that the elven woman was watching her. Stranger yet, was that she seemed entirely unsurprised by Brelyna's presence, much as most Fereldans would find her complexion...unusual. The characteristically large, elven eyes bore deep, red bags. Grief was recent for her, obviously, and harsh. But there were no tears, not a single one to be found when she finally dared defy awkwardness and face the smaller woman.

"Talia the Drake... You are here to mourn the lost, or commemorate victory?" she spoke with a voice hoarse with sorrow, a tilt to it Talia couldn't immediately place. That she knew her name was no surprise, given how many seemed to share such knowledge these days.

"Remembrance." She said, finding her voice again. In the face of such abject grief, it was hard to speak. There was little if any life behind the woman's eyes, only resignation to the cruelties of fate. Regret, sorrow. It physically hurt to meet her gaze; "They wouldn't have wanted sorrow, I think. Uhm, you?"

"My _son_." Even as she spoke, the words seemed to make the woman smaller yet, barely passing her lips; "I only found out... _very recently_."

"...I'm sorry." What else could she say? If there was a spell to simply bring back the dead, she'd have abused it to death long ago herself.

"Those you come to remember... they were friends?" the woman asked, hands hanging limply by her sides.

"Family, more like..." Aedan muttered behind her, and it was true. Even though Leliana was no Warden, she had still been a sister in the end, as true a one as Alai or Brelyna were.

"Good friends became family, just how it works." a tear forced its way out, tickling her skin as it passed. Her own throat constricted as memories forced themselves to the surface. Explaining dead-pan to Alistair how Leliana wanted him like a dog wants meat. Fighting through Darkspawn. Celebrating with friends at Eamon's estate. The memories hit hard, like always, forcing her breath into slower, deeper drags before she could wipe them away; "Blight had a thing for destroying families, though."

" _Yes_." The woman swallowed, blinking away misty eyes. Her voice thickened as she spoke; "I am bereft, Wardens. My son was... _slain_ , but...I never _knew_ him. I nev...never _saw_ him, never saw him grow. When the- when I was forced to give him up, I knew... I under... I understood that, likely, I would n- _never_ see him again."

Talia had no idea how to handle this, or respond to any of it. She wasn't _used_ to grieving parents breaking down in front of her. Even less when there was this kind of guilt involved. Holy shit, she couldn't even imagine how that felt. And she didn't want to ever find out.

"They said..." the woman heaved for air, a hand against the wall to keep herself from falling; "But he said, he... _Eamon_ , he said they...that he'd grow up _well_. That he'd be _safe_ , kept...kept away from...but he wasn't, was he? They never... _no one cared_ , she told me. She _told_ me how...how they kept him in the _kennels_ , _how_..."

Something froze at the back of her mind, a sensation like placing ice where the neck began. It spread upwards, like a clawing hand that raked her skin inch by inch. Talia had stopped breathing when Eamon's name was thrown out. No sound of breathing permeated the small chamber but that of silent weeping. _Eamon...kennels..._

Fucking hells, what was even going on here? The elven woman had slumped to her knees, body shaking with grief, her speech slurred and incoherent, thick with sorrow and loathing, for the world and for herself. Then, finally, came the words she had dreaded, somehow wrapping icy coils only tighter 'round her own heart.

"... _how could I leave Alistair with those monsters?!"_


End file.
